Adventures with the Dragonborn
by Jake Flood
Summary: Characters from all walks of life are drawn into the Dragonborn's travels in Skyrim, pitting them against every kind of foe they can imagine, and some they can't. Spans three consecutive adventures of increasing length and scale. Spoilers for pretty much everything. Mostly original characters. Rated M for violence and language. My first fic, so it's a little rough around the edges.
1. Out of Windhelm

On her second day in Windhelm jail, Dar'epha decided to do something about her predicament. She doubted they'd hang her just for attempted murder, but she wasn't going to take any chances. Besides, the standard-issue jail robe was itching like crazy against her fur. She didn't have any trouble justifying her actions to herself, it was all pretty clear in her mind.

Viola Giordano had been spouting anti-Dunmer babble in the Grey Quarter and with none of the elves brave enough to talk back; it had fallen to Dar'epha, a passing Khajiit, to take matters into her own hands. In short, she'd snapped, lashed out at Viola's face with her claws, a low growl emerging from between her clenched teeth. She'd already seen too much racism in her short time in Windhelm, both casual from Nords on the street, and institutionalised in the structure of the city law.

She'd thought no more of it until the next day when some thugs in Viola's pay had cornered her behind the stables. They had been cheap to hire and as a consequence, easy for Dar'epha to dispatch. She'd flung the bodies down into the White River and stormed back to her room the New Gnisis Cornerclub for her bow. Striding purposefully towards the Stone Quarter, in broad daylight (or as broad as it ever gets in Windhelm) she'd taken aim at Viola, who was deep in argument with the blacksmith Oengul War-Anvil about some perceived error in his work. But in her rage, Dar'epha had failed to mind her footing and she slipped on the icy grey stones just as she loosed her arrow. It buried itself not in the back of Viola's head as Dar'epha had hoped, but in her shoulder.

The store-goers and storekeepers dived for cover as Viola collapsed to her knees and screamed. The Imperial guards were on the scene in an instant, surrounding Dar'epha, forcing her to submit. She couldn't see any way out, not at that point. She bitterly decided to buy her time; after all, a prison escape wouldn't be too hard, or out of the ordinary, for one of her talents.

_ And that prison escape happens now, _she thought, her feline eyes surveying the room on the other side of her cell bars. It was mostly bare, a few hay bales stacked in the corner in case fresh bedding was needed for any of the cells, and one solitary guard sitting in one solitary chair, dozing in the dreariness of his current post. Reaching her hand into her braided hair, she retrieved what she'd woven in there earlier: one lockpick. One was all she needed.

She went to work on the lock of her cell, glancing up every few seconds at the guard to make sure he hadn't woken up. Picking locks was one of Dar'epha's many useful skills and it was mere seconds before the she was finished and the door swung open. Unfortunately for her escape plan, the door swung outwards instead of inwards, making a highly audible scraping noise as it did so. The guard bolted into wakefulness, his eyes wide. He stood and drew his sword in one motion, reacting fast to the situation. But Dar'epha was faster.

She rushed out of the cell, keeping low, and before the guard could get in a swing she'd swiped his legs from under him. Still moving faster than almost any human could hope to, she sidestepped his falling body, placed her hand on the back of his head and pushed, making the speed at which it hit the stone floor enough to blast the guard into unconsciousness. She was pretty sure she hadn't killed him, his leather helmet, light though it was, looked like it had provided enough protection.

But the time had come for Dar'epha to leave that prison, and indeed the entire hold of Eastmarch if she got her way. Taking the guard's sword in case there should be more guards in the next room, she advanced to the exit, noticing distantly that the other cells were all empty. That was odd, even on a good day there'd usually be a good few prisoners in here, petty thieves, drunken brawlers, and the like. But there was no time to ponder that, she opened the door and made her way cautiously up the corridor to the barracks. The next part of the her escape plan pretty much hinged on pure luck, if there were too many guards in their barracks, she knew she would be cut down or subdued before finding an exit.

But the Divines must have smiled on Dar'epha that day, because the barracks were completely empty. Almost unable to believe her luck, she went to work. There was only one door, other than the one she'd just come through, but that led straight into the main hall of the Palace of the Kings. Bursting out in front of Jarl Brunwulf and his assorted guards and guests wouldn't good down too well, she thought. So she consigned herself to the only other option; out one of the windows.

She dragged a bed across to block the door and prevent an untimely interruption, and turned to examine if there was anything of use in the room she could take with her. Her sharp eyes almost immediately picked out a large chest in the corner. In it she discovered her confiscated belongings, her bow, twin daggers, simple clothes and a small and unfortunately light coin pouch. Recent events had not been in Dar'epha's financial favour. Quickly stripping off the ragged prison robes, she donned her clothes and thick boots, shoved her daggers (both glass, claimed during a heist in Solitude) into her belt and tucked her coin pouch (even lighter than it had been previously, damn those guards) into a pocket. Her bow, of the simple hunting variety, she strapped to her back as usual when she was travelling.

Then, it was time to leave. Taking a wooden bowl from one of the guard's bedside tables, she hurled it through the window closest to the way she'd come in. The window shattered easily, and within two seconds, Dar'epha had leapt to the sill and, taking a quick look down, she managed the high fall with ease, landing on all fours. Dashing her hopes that that exit would land her in the docks, it actually landed her in the courtyard in from of the palace, in full view of the two guards standing at their posts on either side of the doors.

"By the order of the-", shouted one of the guards, but Dar'epha was already moving and heard no more. Her feet moved faster across the stone than she thought they'd ever moved before, faster than when she was escaping the giants at Guldun Rock, faster than when she'd seen her first dragon. Bursting through the main doors of Windhelm out onto the bridge, she heard more guards behind her and tried to pick up her pace. Her ears picked up a whistling sound and she dived to the left, just missing be skewered by an arrow. Her eyes glanced up towards the end of the bridge, and her heart fell as she saw more guards advancing towards her. But there was still an out, one she would not normally have considered in any other circumstance.

"To Oblivion with the lot of you," she growled. Then, in one short leap she climbed the stairs leading up to the precipice. Curling her toes over the edge as the guards closed in, she jumped.

About half an hour later, after the guards had given up on shooting arrows down into the dark water and gone back to the warmth of their watch-fires, Alfarinn the carriage driver was surprised to encounter a shivering and very bedraggled Khajiit stumbling up to his carriage where he was perched in the driver's seat.

"I'll pay you double," she said, "just get me to Whiterun."

Alfarinn had learnt long ago not to ask questions of his clients.

"Sure," he said, "hop in. There's a blanket in the back, you look like you might need it."

"Thanks." While she'd been crawling out of the White River, Dar'epha had decided where she was going to go. She was going to pay a visit to her old friend the Dragonborn.


	2. Rememberences

_~This chapter's more than twice as long as the last one, however a good deal of it is flashback. Anyway, enjoy, feedback is always read and appreciated.~_

* * *

Dar'epha had first met the Dragonborn some seven or eight months earlier, in the Frostfruit Inn in Rorikstead. She'd just been getting into some serious drinking with the owner's son Erik and an amiable Breton called Sam Guevenne. She was riding a high, feeling satisfied after a highly successful heist in Solitude.

And then in walked a man like none she'd ever seen before. He was wearing a mismatched collection of apparel: high-quality ebony armour, but with gauntlets of an orcish make and boots of simple iron. But it was his helm that garnered the most attention from the patrons of the inn. It was expertly forged in the likeness of the daedric prince Clavicus Vile, with curved horns protruding from the forehead. At his side was an evil-faced mace and strapped to his left arm was an odd shield that looked like he'd dug it out of a Dwemer ruin. But what was most striking about him was the way he carried himself, with the utmost confidence and surety; as if there was no enemy in Tamriel that he could not defeat.

Dar'epha had expected trouble, had thought perhaps he was a crazy daedra worshipper, or maybe one of those Forsworn she'd been hearing about. She'd also pegged him for an orc, given his large build. But when he removed his helm he revealed himself to be a smiling Breton, with dark brown hair down to his shoulders and a ragged beard. As soon as his face was revealed, Sam Guevenne rose, with a huge grin across his face, and insisted the man join us.

"Erik, Dar'epha, this is…", but Sam got no further.

"I know who you are," said Erik, as the man slid into the bench next to her, "I was in Whiterun buying armour when that dragon was released from Dragonsreach. You're the one who killed Alduin. You're the Dragonborn." There was silence around the table.

"Please," said the hero of the songs, in an unusually deep voice, "none of that Dragonborn business. Call me Gondain, it is my name, after all."

Dar'epha got her mouth working again. "I heard you were helping the Imperial Legion with the Civil War, can't imagine that's won you any new friends."

Gondain's brow furrowed. "Just doing what I think is right. The Stormcloaks may have admirable passion for their homeland, but that's not going help when the Aldmeri Dominion come knocking. And I'm also perfectly placed to push Jarl Elisif to get some reforms through that I think would help improve the lot of everyone in Skyrim." Dar'epha smirked a little, no wonder he had such a divisive reputation. A well-spoken, intelligent and capable man by chance thrust into a position of power? The Stormcloaks would do well to fear him. She suddenly wanted to see for herself if he was as good in a fight as the stories claimed.

Erik looked to be on the verge of a poorly-framed rebuttal, but Sam stopped him.

"Enough politics," he said, "how about something more interesting? A drinking contest perhaps?" He looked pointedly at Gondain.

Erik excused himself quickly, muttering something about making sure his father was doing alright. Sam chuckled, as Gondain and Dar'epha quickly agreed, what could be better than to cut loose after several hard days of adventuring?

Everything was a blur for Dar'epha after that. She was sure that they were drinking for a very long time; the night went on far longer than should have been possible. She vaguely recalled running from an irate farmer, and sneaking through something that smelt atrocious, but the rest never even entered her memory.

The next thing she knew she was waking up in the morning next to a tall spire of stone with headache like a dozen rampaging mammoths. She would later discover that the stone spire was in fact a monument to the Nord commander Gjukar, but that meant nothing to her at the time, she was more focused on determining what in the name of all the Divines had happened the previous night. Squinting up at the sun, she tried to get her bearings. However, the bright light caused her headache to violently reassert itself, and she resolved to simply pick a direction. Heading kind of west-ish, she thought, seemed as good as any other.

Luck was on her side once again, for from the top of the next hill, she could see Rorikstead to the north-west, and not too far away either. As she rounded a corner near the outskirts of town, she met Gondain, standing over the body of a giant, trying to convince a goat to follow him. He paused when he saw her.

"Morning," he said, scratching his beard. "Crazy night, huh? Where did you end up?"

Dar'epha found herself smiling despite the pain behind her eyes. "Somewhere that way," she said, gesturing back in the direction she'd come from. "What… what are you doing?"

"Ah, apparently last night I stole a farmer's goat and sold it to this here giant, and now of course the famer wants it back. I feel bad about the giant though, I didn't want to kill him."

"Right…" Dar'epha was momentarily at a loss for words. Rubbing her brow, she tried to string some thoughts together. "Passing over the fact that you somehow managed to kill a giant without any trouble, do you remember anything at all about last night?"

"Not much," he replied, "I do have a vague recollection of you pulling off some absurdly good trick shots with your bow though. Actually…" His expression became thoughtful, and then a hopeful smile broke out across his face. "You seem like you can handle yourself, there's a ruin to the north I've been meaning to explore, named Volskygge, would you like to come along for the adventure?"

Dar'epha was taken aback, very few people she'd met in her life had taken an interest purely in her company, they usually had other motives, like stealing her purse after she was asleep, or double-crossing her and turning her over to the guards. But the Dragonborn was not even close to being short of gold, and despite having helped people in every hold; he had a reputation for being occasionally flippant with the law of Skyrim. She decided to take a risk, after all, he seemed to be a good sort.

"Explore a probably very dangerous ruin with a man I barely know? Count me in," she said. His smile was infectious, she realised her grin was almost as wide as his.

"Alright then!" he said with obvious excitement, "I have to return this goat and track down that Sam fellow, but could you meet me in Dragon Bridge in say, four or five days?"

"Sure thing," she replied. A real adventure, with the Dragonborn no less. Delving into ruins wasn't really Dar'epha's area of expertise, she was more used to breaking into the homes of wealthy nobles and making off with their valuables, or sneaking light-footed through bandit camps to steal their loot. But with the walking mountain of Gondain at her side, she reckoned she'd be alright.

"Great!" said that very man, and, picking up his helmet from next to the giant in one hand, he hoisted the goat with the other and, tucking the animal under his arm, he trundled off towards Rorikstead.

* * *

They delved into Volskygge, and then some. Over a period of three months the two of them took Haafingar, Hjaalmarch and the Pale by storm, clearing ruins and caves of all sorts, slaying vampires, trolls, draugr and even a good few Falmer during a tense expedition into the Dwemer ruin of Mzinchaleft. They'd run out of food and had to turn back before they could get to what Gondain had wanted to show Dar'epha: Blackreach. He promised her that there'd be another time.

The personal highlight for Dar'epha had been when, while exploring the coast north-west of Dawnstar, they'd found a half-submerged shipwreck and had spent a joyful few days diving through the freezing water for the sunken cargo. On the last day there, as they emerged from the water they'd encountered a snow bear, and had had to frantically grab their gear and flee in their underclothes. Gondain had lit a fire with one of his dragon shouts later to get the chill out of their bones. She often looked back on those adventures as some of the happiest and most thrilling times of her life.

Sadly, it didn't last. While having a drink at the Nightgate Inn, planning on heading north into Winterhold, a courier burst in from the cold, having somehow managed to track Gondain down with a letter for him from General Tullius. Evidently the final push in the civil war was upon them, and they requested that he join them in the assault on Windhelm. They could have ordered him, he had formally enlisted in the Legion and was therefore bound by the military hierarchy, but clearly they felt some respect was in order for the Dragonborn. And just like that, with a quick smile and an open invitation to visit him at his home in Whiterun, he was gone.

* * *

Their adventures ran over again in Dar'epha's mind as she trudged up the path towards Whiterun's gates, having paid Alfarinn what he was due plus extra for his kindness. How long had it been since Gondain had left her at the Nightgate Inn, three and a… no, almost four months now. Well, this time she had a genuine need for his hospitality, she thought, rather than just an abstract desire to see him smile again.

If the tales in the taverns were anything to go by, Gondain had certainly been busy recently. After ending the civil war and helping the Legion solidify its victory (accounts differed on whether he dispatched Ulfric Stormcloak himself or not), he had joined the Companions of Whiterun and in a matter of mere weeks had, through a series of increasingly unbelievable events, become the Harbinger. Just as quickly, however, he'd retired, turning the mantle over to Aela the Huntress, claiming her experience with the Companions far outclassed his own. There were also rumours through the shadier parts of the towns that he'd joined the Thieves Guild, and was well into the process of restoring it to its former glory, expanding its operations out from Riften across all of Skyrim. There was also an extraordinary tale of how Gondain had gotten thrown into Markath's Cidhna Mine and had been part of a daring escape with Madanach and his Forsworn. In the detail, however, the accounts varied. Some were sure that the Dragonborn had only pretended to ally himself with the Forsworn and had actually killed Madanach after the escape was successful, incurring the bitter hatred of the group. Others were adamant that he had truly committed to the Forsworn cause and was at this moment conspiring with Madanach to retake the Reach. More outlandish versions claimed that he'd slaughtered all the Forsworn in the mine and then single-handedly cut his way out. Or perhaps found a hidden ancient tunnel through the city, with untold riches stashed within. Whatever version was closest to the truth, it was undeniable that he was now widely hated in Markath and the Reach, with the Jarl barely being restrained for issuing a kill-on-sight order to his populace, halted by intervention from his steward and hasty letters from several other Jarls.

There was a final story, simple in nature, that Dar'epha couldn't stop from going around and around in her head, no matter how hard she tried to direct her thoughts elsewhere. It was merely this: Gondain had gotten married. Dar'epha had felt an odd sort of kick in her chest when she first heard that news, something she didn't quite understand. The woman's name was Angi, she was a Nord that he'd apparently met down in Falkreath, they'd gone to Riften for the wedding, and now resided in Whiterun. Dar'epha didn't know how she'd react to meeting her. If they were happy, wasn't that enough? It should be, she thought, at least in theory.

Entering Whiterun without any trouble (Gondain had also been instrumental after the civil war in improving the rights of non-humans throughout Skyrim), she walked the short distance to Breezehome, Gondain's first and favourite house. Three sharp knocks on the door elicited no response. She decided to wait; maybe he and his wife were out hunting or something and they'd be back soon. She sat on the stone wall across from the house for an hour, before giving up and heading to the Bannered Mare for a drink. Two hours later, slightly tipsy on Honningbrew Mead, she wandered back to knock again as the dusk started to gather. There was still no response. Walking around the side of the house, she tried to peer through a window, but could not make out anything distinct through the dirt on the glass.

Making a snap decision, she glanced quickly to both sides to make sure there were no guards, then picked up a small stone and hefted it through the window. Clearing away the more dangerous protruding shards, she climbed nimbly through and into Gondain's home. Her feline eyes quickly adjusted to the dark, and she realised she was in a small side-room with a well-stocked alchemy workshop and a small full bookshelf. Everything was neat and organised.

However, once she opened the door into the main room she was faced with something entirely different. It looked like Gondain had played host to a series of tavern brawls of increasing intensity. Furniture was upturned, the remains of a meal were stuck to the stairs, several weapons were scattered around and most disturbingly, there were large bloodstains on the table and floor, smeared in the direction of the front door, indicating the removal of bodies.

Investigating further, she discovered similar chaos upstairs, with drawers pulled all the way out, the door to the spare bedroom completely shattered, and an additional bloodstain in the centre of the main double-bed, causing Dar'epha to feel even more agitated than she had already become. She was on her way out, meaning to grab a guard to see if they knew what had happened to the Dragonborn, when she noticed a note pinned to the inside of the front door, held in place with an elaborate Dwemer dagger driven into the wood.

Unable to wrest the dagger from where it was jammed so far in the door, she tore the note down and moved over to the central fire to stir up the coals. Using the pile of firewood under the stairs, she soon had a pleasant little blaze going, enough to temporarily warm and enough to read the note.

_ Dar'epha,_ the note read in a loose scrawl, clearly done in haste, getting messier as it went down the page.

_ You're probably the only friend I have who'd break into my house if I didn't answer the door. Please, border up whatever window you used to get in, otherwise the guards might take notice. The side room one, I'll bet. But you're probably wondering why the house is such a mess. I assure you that me and Angi usually keep it in a much more orderly than this. You've probably heard about that business I got into with the Forsworn a while back. Regardless of which version you think is true, their new leader is out to get vengeance on me and was clever enough to get some of his cultists inside Whiterun's walls. We took care of them but didn't have time to fully clean up. I'm taking the fight to them and I could use your help. It's been far too long since we had an adventure together anyway. If you're interested, find Ainethach in Karthwasten, I'll let him know where in the Reach I've set up camp._

_ There's plenty of good gear upstairs, feel free to borrow any if you think it'll be of use to you._

_ Hope to be killing Forsworn with you soon._

It was signed _Gondain _in an almost illegible scribble. Obviously he'd been in a hurry to get out the door.

Well, she thought, it was to be expected. The Dragonborn was hardly the sort of person who would put his feet up and take it easy. Even if he didn't find adventure, adventure would find him soon enough; and it seemed it had done just that.

Dar'epha didn't consider her decision for more than the briefest instant. Another adventure with Gondain? Sign her up! She folded up the note carefully and slid it into her pocket, then headed upstairs, for she could certainly use that offer of new gear.

A half hour later of being spoiled for choice, she descended the stairs once again, clad in a set of leather armour, minus the helm, which she always found interfered with her aim. It had seemed stronger to her than the normal leather she was familiar with, she wouldn't be surprised to discover if it had some sort of enchantment built into it. To cover her head she had found a hood, like the ones she'd seen Thieves Guild members wearing. She kept her own bow, but tucked several fistfuls of steel arrows into her quiver. You could never have too many arrows.

She'd been astounded by what she'd found stashed in the chests and cupboards upstairs, many weapons that seemed to hum with a deep sinister energy, several of which she hadn't even wanted to touch. There were so many sets of armour she'd lost count. Most of them were absurdly high quality, some looked all-but indestructible, and others appeared to be ancient beyond comprehension. Gondain looked to have kept every vaguely unique piece of loot he'd ever come across in his slew of adventures.

She decided to set off immediately, despite night having now completely fallen. She remembered at the last minute about the window, jamming the top of a barrel over the hole. It wouldn't hold up against a fierce storm, but it would hopefully fool any casual onlookers. Gondain's note hadn't mentioned anything about gold, but she hoped he wouldn't mind her taking a few measly hundred septims. For expenses, she'd say if he asked.

Leaving the house and the safety of the town walls, she headed back towards the stables. Alfarinn, it seemed, had departed back to Windhelm already but Bjorlam, the resident Whiterun carriage driver, was more than happy to take her to Karthwasten. Off his usual routes, he said, but she paid enough extra to broaden his mind. She settled down in the back for a nap as the carriage trundled off toward her destination, and the Dragonborn's latest adventure.


	3. Into the Wilds

Ainethach was surprisingly fine with being woken up just before midnight; at least he was once Dar'epha had explained who she was. Anything, he said, to help out the Dragonborn. He wasn't sure, however, how up-to-date his information was.

"The last time he came through here was a week ago," Ainethach said, as they sat at a table outside his house, their conversation lit by a single lantern. "He picked up more supplies, borrowed a few things from me, which I was of course happy to provide, and said he was heading up to Druadach Redoubt. I haven't seen him since."

"So how do I get up there then? To the redoubt?" she asked.

"Well, the quickest way would the steep path just outside the town. Take that over the mountain and down the other side. Then stay on the west side of the Karth River and you should find another path heading to the west. Follow that straight, mind you don't take the turn up to Dragontooth Crater and you should be fine. The redoubt is at the end of the path, his camp will be up around there somewhere, I imagine, you'll probably see the smoke from his campfire easily enough." Dar'epha decided she liked Ainethach, he didn't waste words and evidently had a thorough knowledge of the area.

She thanked him and shook his hand, making to move off to follow his directions, but he stopped her with a question.

"You're not setting off now are you? It's pitch black out there!" He sounded, to his credit, genuinely concerned.

"I'll be fine," she said, indicating her eyes, "Night vision, remember?"

"But still, it's dangerous, the Forsworn have been very active and…" he trailed off, she was already striding away.

"Thanks again for your help, Ainethach!" she called back, "I'll buy you a drink next time I see you." Ainethach shook his head and retreated back into the warmth of his house. If she was good enough to hold her own with the Dragonborn himself, he thought, then she could probably handle whatever the black night of the Reach could throw at her.

* * *

As Ainethach predicted, the path up to the Redoubt gave Dar'epha no trouble at all. During their previous adventures, Gondain had often commented on how extraordinarily light-footed she was. He'd said that she could probably steal the clothes off a man's back without him noticing if she'd a mind to. This skill was not only hugely useful in her line of work (or more likely it was in fact the reason she was a thief at all, she mused), it had also saved her life on innumerable occasions. It had also made her quite a bit of coin; being able to slip silently into the shadows was a highly sought-after talent.

This skill, combined with her night vision and highly sensitive hearing, would have made it very easy for her to evade any foe, Forsworn or otherwise, if she'd encountered them. However, despite Ainethach's warnings, the path was deserted.

When the path once again met a river, what she assumed to be a tributary of the Karth, could clearly make out a campfire's light, on a small ledge on the other side of river. A single figure was silhouette by the flames, sitting at ease on a log stirring a pot that hung over the fire. A smile came across Dar'epha's face. Looking around for a way to cross the river without getting wet, she found her route across the top of a small waterfall; the wet protrusions of rock becoming a bridge as she leapt from one to another. As the final leap landed her on the other side of the river, she looked up to the light and cupped her paws around her mouth.

"Hello the camp!" she called, choosing to follow the adventurer's method of announcing one's appearance. For a such a big man, he moved with incredible speed in response to the noise, picking up his bow from where it lay beside him and notching an arrow from where he had a small forest of them driven into the ground.

"Who goes there?" his deep voice rang out, his human eyes unable to make out her shape in the dark.

"Who else do you know that's crazy enough to be out in the Reach in the middle of the night?" He recognised her voice then, and lowered his weapon, plunging the arrow back among its brethren.

"Well I'll be damned," he bellowed. "Dar'epha, as I live and breathe! Get your tail up here so I can see you."

Trying her best not to run, she followed his request. "Pull up a log, sit down," Gondain added, "Glad you could make it." There were lines under his eyes, she wondered how long it had been since he slept, how hard this quest was hitting him, despite his almost unparalleled endurance.

She dragged over a nicely chopped bit of from the pile just on the edge of the camp (it appeared that he'd cut down several small trees) and sat opposite him, with the fire between them.

"Well, I'm hardly going to turn down an offer for adventure, am I? And, you needed my help," she said. He smiled and lifted the lid on the pot hanging over the fire to reveal a delicious looking stew. One of the little-known facts about the Dragonborn was that he was a pretty damn good cook. He fished around in a knapsack behind him and came up with a couple of wooden bowls.

Tearing her glance away from his smile, Dar'epha noticed that he was in full armour, and of a kind she'd not seen anywhere before. It looked almost like…

"Is that dragonscale armour?" she asked, incredulous.

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Tough as they come, light too. Sorry there's no spoons," he added as he poured out the stew, unaffected by the heat of the iron pot through his gauntlets. They sat for some minutes, not talking, just sipping directly from the bowls. The stew was delicious, some mix of vegetables and a distinct herb flavour that she didn't recognise, so she asked him what it was.

"Juniper berries," he replied. "They grow all over round here. Never mind that though, what have you been doing since our last adventure? Stolen anything especially valuable? Broken into any fine houses? Before I left Whiterun, the word from my contact was that you were making yourself a nuisance over in Windhelm."

Dar'epha gulped the last of her stew and thought over her recent escapades. A few things stood out. "Well, you've got good contacts; I was actually arrested in Windhelm. Busted out pretty quick though. Hey, have you ever wondered if you could survive a jump off that bridge into the river?"

Gondain's grin became massive. "Of course, always been too busy to try it though. You didn't…"

"Oh yes I did. Went down pretty well too, except for the cold."

Gondain laughed then. His was a laugh that took up the whole body, welling up from his belly until all of him was committed to it. "That'll give those guards something to think about!" he said. "Never been too keen on Windhelm myself, especially after the war. You're better off out of there."

"And the only really good thing I've stolen recently was…" she pondered for a moment. "A fancy-looking bee statue, down from Goldenglow Estate."

Gondain whistled appreciatively. "I've broken into that place myself, it's not easy. I know a guy who can give you a good price for that statue if you've still got it."

"Yeah, I stashed it someplace safe. And that'd be good; I'm a little short of gold right now."

"You know, you can always borrow from me if you need anything," he said, dropping the smile momentarily.

"Already did, I took a couple hundred septims out of your end-table," she said.

He waved it away with a hand. "Don't worry about it, I got plenty to spare."

"I'll pay you back next time I crack open a nice full strongbox. But enough small talk," Dar'epha went on, "what's the situation? Why here? Where are the Forsworn? I haven't seen any of them out here at all."

His gaze hardened, his expression became serious. This was the Gondain that had ended the civil war, the Gondain that had killed Alduin, and Divines knew what else.

"After we dealt with the Forsworn at our house, I sent Angi to my place in Riften. She wasn't happy about it, but she's not cut out for this sort of work. It didn't take very long to find out who the new leader of the band is: a big orc by the name of Borkul. 'The Beast', they call him. I met him in Cidhna Mine, he used to be Madanach's bodyguard. He's a brute and a serial murderer, but it seems he's proven to be just as canny as his old boss, managing to get some of his men into Whiterun without being detected. He and his most important cretins are holed over in the Redoubt." He pointed across the river, just slightly north of where Dar'epha had crossed. She could make it out quite easily, a natural opening in the rock, with a winding path leading up to it lined with spikes. A normal man might have said that a mere two warriors could not take it. But the Dragonborn was not a normal man.

"Do you have a plan other than sitting out here taking pot-shots over the river?" Dar'epha asked, her voice rising in volume. "And when was the last time you slept? Damn it, Gondain, you might be a legend but you're not invincible!"

He at least had the decency to look slightly ashamed. "I've been pushing myself hard, I know. But if my concentration drops for just one minute then they might get past me, or sneak up on me, or start taking pot-shots back. They need to be eliminated; I need to eliminate them." He became agitated as he went on, the stress of recent events becoming more apparent. "They almost got Angi. If I hadn't been there… I need to get rid of them. Permanently."

When he'd finished, Dar'epha stared into his eyes across the flames and saw the violent emotion within, saw the passionate fire that burned inside him. This man would tear mountains apart and set the sea to boil if he knew it would protect his wife and his home. How could she not help him? She'd seen some of it in him when they'd first met, but this was different, this was _personal._ Of course she'd help him, wasn't that what she'd come to do anyway? And maybe when it was dealt with, maybe then, she'd meet this wife of his and see what it was about her that inspired him so.

"Alright," she said, adopting a commanding tone, "this is what we're going to do. You get some sleep, I'll stand watch, and in the morning we'll- wait, how many of them are there?"

"No more than a dozen, I'd bet. Borkul didn't have enough warning to gather more."

She chuckled and shook her head. "Only a dozen? Ha!" Her manner set Gondain back to smiling, which in turn made her even more confident. "We'll make short work of them for sure! You get some sleep and in the morning we'll go in there and do what it is we do best. By breakfast there won't be any of them left."

"You're right," he said, "There isn't anyone alive who can stand up to us. Bunch of hag-loving crazies with deer skulls for helmets? Shouldn't be any trouble at all. And I bet I get more than you." His grin was back in full force.

"You're on."

* * *

The first rays of dawn saw the two of them standing just on the edge of the river, ready to ford their way across. Gondain had managed just four hours of sleep but seemed much improved from it, his eyes had a familiar glow about them and Dar'Epha couldn't have felt gladder to be back on an adventure with him.

Without tearing his gaze away from the cave opening, Gondain spoke.

"There's a sentry, can you see him? Just to the left of the entrance, trying to hide behind the rock. Do you think you can get him from here?"

Dar'Epha's grin was as wide as only a gleeful Khajiit's can be. "Does an orc shit in the woods?" she asked.


	4. Assault on Druadach Redoubt

The steel arrow bit directly into the Forsworn sentry's throat, sending out a plume of blood. Before he hit the ground, Gondain was on the move, bounding across the ford in the river. Still clad in his dragonscale armour (now complete with helmet), he wielded an ebony sword and matching shield. When Dar'epha had enquired about them as they were preparing for the assault, he had said that he'd forged them both himself, to get the weight and balance just right.

Seeming to be barely weighed down by his armour at all, he moved with incredible speed up the path to Druadach Redoubt, with Dar'epha following behind, another arrow already notched in her bow. Passing the still-gurgling body of the sentry, the two warriors advanced into the cave to take on the Forsworn and their leader. How many were inside, they knew not.

* * *

As they emerged from the entrance tunnel into the main chamber of the cave, all traces of stealth forgotten, Dar'epha saw that this was no ordinary Forsworn camp. Sure, the usual goat heads on spikes and animal hides stretched into crude tents were still abundant, but this was clearly the headquarters, equipped to stand up to protracted siege. Directly in front of them, a small stream flowed under a shabby bridge, from which they were clearly drawing water, given the large tank of the stuff just a bit further in. An opening in the roof of the cave provided enough light for a small garden of produce, with a goat-powered mill wheel nearby to crush grain. Fish and rabbit hanging over a fire added to the sense that with the right defence, this cave could have held out almost indefinitely. Unfortunately for them, their defence hadn't been good enough to stop Gondain and Dar'epha. Actually, she thought, their defence so far had been oddly weak.

With her burying an arrow in the back of a Forsworn chopping wood, the two announced their presence. Cries of alarm swept through the cave as the Reachmen (and indeed, Reachwomen) reacted to the attack. Bashing his shield into the face of a charging Ravager, Gondain gestured to his right with his sword.

"You take right, I'll take left. Meet you up top." And with that, he was away, charging up the nearest ramp with a roar, colliding with an archer, a forceful swing taking off his arm and another, his head. Dar'epha saw no more, for she moved to the right and up a narrow ramped path, keeping low, getting two quick arrows off into the chest of another archer taking aim at Gondain.

A glance to her right showed her the way she needed to take, and a tent with a still-drowsy Reachwoman fumbling for her axes. Dar'epha managed to get an arrow buried right between her eyes. She was starting to enjoy herself. Just then two Ravagers came running down the next ramp, swinging their dual swords with dizzying speed. It was a tactic designed to intimidate, but such tricks did not affect Dar'epha.

With no time to notch another arrow, she dropped her bow and drew her twin glass daggers, tossing one with her left hand almost casually straight into the heart of the Ravager on the right. The remaining Forsworn lost no impetus at seeing his comrade fall, and came straight at her. But faster than he could react, she did a standing leap over his head, angling slightly to the left, landing on the level where the two had descended from. Before the Reachman had realised what was happening, she'd launched herself off the ledge, tackling him to ground and burying the dagger in his neck.

Another of Gondain's roars from the other side of the cave, followed by a scream being cut short, informed her that he was having a similar success.

Retrieving both her daggers, she sheathed them and picked up her bow from where it had fallen. Readying an arrow, she advanced up the final ramp, to the highest area in the cave. Glancing across she could see Gondain in a similar position coming up on the opposite side. There were three Forsworn left in sight, all clustered around the well-equipped forge; an archer struggling to notch his bow, another Ravager wielding two axes, and another, in the centre, who didn't appear to have any visible weapon. Dar'epha narrowed her eyes. The hole in the centre of this final Forsworn's chest looked to mark him as a-

"Briarheart!" she yelled, letting her arrow fly and diving to the side as the spellcaster in question loosed a deadly shard of ice in her direction. Narrowly dodging being skewered, she saw her arrow, fired without thought, had caught the Forsworn archer in the gut, bringing him to his knees in pain.

"Get her!" shouted the Briarheart to the other remaining Forsworn, the air around his hands shimmering with heat as he prepared a fire spell. Leaping lightly to her feet, Dar'epha prepared to engage the swinging axes approaching her at great speed. At the same moment she drew her daggers (once again discarding her bow), the Briarheart flung his fireball at Gondain. He dropped to one knee and brought his shield up, easily absorbing the force of the blast. Dar'epha swayed to her right to avoid a downwards swipe, then ducked and rolled to her left to dodge a strike intended to decapitate her. Coming to her feet quickly once again, she buried the dagger in her left hand in the Forsworn's right shoulder, causing him to grunt and drop the axe in that hand. Before he could recover, she buried her other dagger in his heart.

Withdrawing her daggers and letting the man fall, she looked up just in time to see Gondain deliver a skull-shattering blow to the Briarheart, carving through his antlered helmet and into his skull with ease, killing him instantly.

With a gauntleted fist the Dragonborn doused the last remnants of fire dancing across his shield and armour. He wiped he sword clean on the Briarheart's furs and glanced with frustration around them.

"Borkul's not here," he grunted, sheathing his sword. "And there weren't enough of them. If this is their headquarters, why were there less than a dozen? Something's not right." His attention turned to the archer, still quietly groaning and writhing next to the forge.

"Maybe your information was wrong?" Dar'epha asked, "Maybe he's someplace else?" She sheathed her weapons and started rummaging through the pockets of the dead for loose change.

"My information was fine. Something else is going on." Gondain strode to the archer and hoisted up him up by the shoulders, propping him up against the stone side of the forge, making him scream from the pain of his wound. "Duach," he growled, "pleasure to see you again."

"You know this guy?" Dar'epha asked.

"Met him in Cidhna Mine," Gondain replied, not taking his eyes off the man now identified as Duach. "Didn't do too well down there did you, Duach? Not after you lost that brawl for your skooma, anyway." Duach tried to splutter a curse but was stifled by another spasm of pain in his stomach.

* * *

Skooma was one of the few things Gondain and Dar'epha disagreed on. While he was convinced, after eliminating a ring of dealers in Riften, that it was a foul drug, she didn't think there was anything wrong with a little bit here and there. It gave her such a pleasant buzz, after all. She curtailed her usage around him though, to keep him happy.

* * *

"Now Duach," Gondain went on, "where's Borkul? I'd like to have a few words with him."

Duach chuckled, a hideous sight with blood bubbling out between his lips. "You don't know… we spent months setting this up…" he trailed off into a bout of coughing.

Gondain grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently, making him cry out in pain again.

"Setting up what?" he asked, "What has Borkul done?"

Duach grinned widely. "Go outside, have a look," he said.

Gondain cursed, and slammed Duach's head against the stones of the forge, making him yelp. Reaching lower, he grabbed the arrow sticking out of the man's belly and pulled violently. Duach screamed louder than Dar'epha had ever heard anyone scream before. As the arrow was wrested completely from his body, he slumped, his life extinguished.

Gondain turned, to discover Dar'epha spitting out a chunk of rabbit she'd taken from over the fire. He gave her a questioning look.

"Reachmen can't cook, it turns out," she said, "no wonder they're all crazy. What's happening?" She'd had a quick look around for valuables (finding none) and had only turned back to Gondain upon Duach's scream.

Gondain found himself chuckling despite the seriousness of the situation. Dar'epha had a way of adding some light-heartedness to this sort of thing.

"It's a trap," he said, "I don't know what kind, but I bet there's a nasty surprise waiting for us outside."

"Well, then let's go and have a little peek," she said. She darted around gathering arrows from the fallen, maintaining her upbeat tone. "How bad can it be? I mean, we dealt with these fools without any trouble, what could be out there that we can't handle?"

Gondain didn't look entirely convinced. "I don't know, but Duach said Borkul's spent months setting it up. Whatever is outside, it can't be good."

Dar'epha laughed. "What's this orc gonna do? Summon the dragons from their ancient sleep? Oh wait, that already happened! And you dealt with it with no trouble. Whatever this is, it should be a pushover. Come on, let's go have a peek."

Gondain found himself grinning for the first time that day, which as usual inspired Dar'epha's grin to grow even wider.

"I wouldn't exactly say I stopped Alduin with no trouble," he said. "But you're right, let's have a look, see how bad this so-called trap is."

"That's more like it!" she said, falling in beside him as they strode towards the entrance.

Crouching near the entrance, the two adventurers could hear the faint echo of murmured voices, a shared glance confirming to each other that Duach might have been telling the truth. Gondain seemed about to speak, but she cut him off.

"I can sneak a lot better than you; I'll crawl up and have a quick peek outside." She kept her voice low, and Gondain merely nodded in reply, drawing his sword as slowly and quietly as possible. Flattening herself out, she dragged herself up the final stretch with her arms, keeping as silent as only she could. Reaching the final lip of the cave she gently propped herself up on her elbows to survey what was waiting for them. What she saw made her duck back down instantly, breath held from fear they might have glimpsed her movement. When no change could be heard, she let out the breath and shuffled back down to where Gondain was waiting with anticipation.

"Well," he whispered, "what is it? What's the trap?"

Dar'epha paused, choosing her words carefully. "Remember how I said it'd be a pushover?"

"Yeah…"

"I might have to take that back."

"How bad is it?"

"There's a small army of Forsworn out there. At least one Hagraven, but I didn't feel like getting a closer look, there could be more. Picked out your friend Borkul though, right at the front. He stands out, aren't many orcs among that lot." When she finished he sat in silence, pondering the information. He scratched quickly at his stubble.

"What's the plan?" she asked. There was another pause before he spoke, as he mentally weighed up the options.

"This isn't your fight," he said finally. "They're here for me, I killed Madanach and they're out for revenge. You're here because I asked you to be, you can get out of here, go and-"

She was outraged at the very suggestion, as if she would leave him to fight them on his own! She tried to raise objections, but he talked straight over her.

"-vanish, I'll distract them and you can past easily, you're the best at being unseen. However…" he paused again. "If you want to fight with me, I won't stop you. But it's going to get messy, and you're not used to this sort of large-scale battle."

Her decision was, of course, immediate.

"Of course I'll stay and fight, you think I'd leave you to-", he cut off her objections with a sharp wave of his hand.

"Don't make your choice lightly; the chances of us getting out of here aren't good either way. Take a minute, think, make a decision, I'll give you time to sneak out if you're going. Now, I need to have words with Borkul." Rising sharply to his feet, he strode with confidence out of the cave and into the daylight, leaving Dar'epha behind. She knew him well, but he was still able to leave her speechless.

* * *

Stepping out onto the ledge at the entrance to the cave, Gondain had a clear view of the Redoubt and the trap that had now been sprung. Or so Borkul would like to believe.

Dar'epha had been mostly fair in her quick assessment; it was indeed a small army, gathered at the base of the path. With a sweeping glance he estimated perhaps forty Reachmen had gathered, including _two _Hagravens, all headed by Borkul, the murdering hulk of an orc now turning up towards Gondain as others noticed his presence.

"_BORKUL!" _he bellowed. "_Your reign ends here!"_

Borkul the Beast merely laughed deeply and threw his arms wide. "Do you not see my army, Dragonborn?" he called back. "It is you who will end here! You will die alone out here and the Forsworn will once again rule the Reach."

The Dragonborn grinned then, like Dar'epha had made him grin many times before, but this time, it was tinged with a violent madness. The look in his eyes would have made even the strongest of the Forsworn flinch, had they been close enough to make it out. He spread his arms out in an echo of Borkul's gesture.

"Oh, but you've forgotten," Gondain said. "I'm never alone."


	5. Fall of the Beast

_~This is the final chapter of this story arc, thanks for sticking with my first attempt at a story. There'll be a one-chapter interlude, then on to the next arc, which will introduce some new characters and some of the factions that haven't been mentioned yet~_

* * *

"_Od… Ah… Viing!"_

The Dragonborn's voice thundered across the Redoubt, echoing off the sides of the harsh mountains of the Reach. The gathered Forsworn collectively flinched, expecting to be blown away or set on fire, but they suffered neither.

The Thu'um faded from hearing, and still there was no visible effect. Borkul laughed and signalled to his archers and spellcasters.

"Leave nothing of him!" he yelled.

A volley of arrows and deadly magic would have gone flying straight at Gondain, but at that moment an immense red dragon landed in the middle of the Forsworn, crushing several under its scaly hide and bowling half a dozen away with a sweep of its tail. Gondain took a small jump, landing at the base of the Redoubt and moving to engage the Forsworn. As he landed, another figure landed lightly next to him, with her bow already launching arrows into the enemy.

"Thanks," he said simply.

"Are you kidding?" Dar'epha replied, with awe in her voice. "There's no way I'm missing this."

His grin widening, Gondain plunged into the throngs of Forsworn, scattered and disorientated by the arrival of Odahviing, his dragon ally who'd been of crucial assistance in the fight against Alduin. Leaping into a Forsworn shield-first, Gondain found himself face-to-face with the beast whose kind had once ruled over Skyrim.

"Glad you could make it," he said.

Odahviing grunted. "Looks like you've gotten yourself in a nice mess this time, Dovahkiin."

"Oh, you know me," he replied, side-stepping an incoming Forsworn axe and retaliating by shoving his sword through the enemy's back, "always biting off more than I can chew."

Words of the Dovah emerged from Odahviing's throat, and a great gout of fire spewed forth, incinerating another batch of the Reachmen. Borkul's shouts from across the battlefield attempted to rally the disheartened and disorganised troops.

"Come on men!" he shouted, "Ice spells, arrows! Keep that dragon on the ground!"

"Excuse me," said Gondain, "I have business with that orc." Odahviing merely belted another plume of flame and, with a great flap of his wings, blasted himself into the air, sending Forsworn who'd gotten too close reeling from the force of his lift-off. Gondain was unaffected, already on the move, hewing through enemies, heading directly for Borkul the Beast.

* * *

Dar'epha could barely believe her eyes. A dragon here, working with Gondain, no less! It stretched the bounds of the incredible, even for him. He never much liked to tell stories about his own exploits, so she'd been forced to rely on bard's songs and garbled tavern stories for the account of how he'd flown a dragon to Sovngarde. It had always seemed the most unbelievable of all the unbelievable stories. And yet here was that very dragon, summoned for aid by the power of Gondain's Voice.

Despite her disbelief, Dar'epha was able to keep up a steady stream of arrows, every one finding their mark as the dragon circled above the fight, switching between short bursts of fire and snatching up Forsworn in its jaws. A group of Forsworn detached itself from the main group and headed towards her, marking her as the source of the arrows sprouting from their comrades' skulls. Reaching for her quiver, she found it empty.

Casting her bow aside, she drew her daggers. Time to get in close and personal, she thought.

She didn't wait for them to clear the distance to her, instead she jumped into the fight, catching the forerunner by surprise and slitting his throat open. The battle was upon her. She moved like a wraith, dancing away from blades, rolling to avoid magic, never once feeling the touch of axe, sword, fire or ice. Her daggers tasted more than their fair share of Forsworn blood that morning. A well-placed boot into an archer's chest sent him reeling backwards into a Briarheart, causing the latter's spell to go in entirely the wrong direction. Instead of a twisted bolt of lightning engulfing Dar'epha, it went sideways, impacting in another Forsworn's face, sending him writhing and screaming to the ground. She chuckled as she dispatched the Briarheart responsible with two quick stabs, but the chuckle died as a hagraven reared up before her, its horrible claws reaching out for her throat.

She tried to hop backwards out of the foul creature's reach, but either she wasn't fast enough, or she misjudged the hagraven's reach. She spent a long time afterwards mulling over it with a bottle of mead, and she was never sure which it had been. Either way, the claws caught her on the nose, sending out a spray of blood and a spasm of searing pain. She stumbled, and the hagraven cackled as only they can, preparing a fireball to end the fight. But that time at least, Dar'epha was faster. Hurling one of her daggers at her foe, it caught the hideous monster directly in the right eye. The beast spluttered blood, and then collapsed.

Withdrawing the dagger from the hagraven's eye with a nasty squelch, Dar'epha surveyed the field of battle. Most of the Forsworn lay dead or dying, with Odahviing still circling above, swooping to grasp a single Reachman in his jaws as she watched, the dragon then flinging the screaming man back down to earth with a sickening crunch. It was hard for her to tell, having very little experience with dragons, but it looked like the red scaly beast was enjoying himself.

Borkul the Beast, it seemed, was still drawing breath, as he backed towards the river with two of his followers, looking for an escape route but not wanting to take their eyes off Gondain as he approached them, drenched in their comrades' blood.

Knowing he was more than capable of handling himself, she turned her attention to her injury, pressing her paw against her nose to try and stem the blood flow.

* * *

Gondain made short work of the two Forsworn defending Borkul. The sharp top edge of his shield took the first in the jugular, his sword zipping past the defence of the second and into his ribcage, leaving the Beast standing alone before the Dragonborn.

Gondain's eyes narrowed, his stance careful, his body coiled to strike. He'd seen Borkul in action in Markath after the escape from Cidhna Mine; he fought with a violent ferocity, with no concern for his own safety. It would be his downfall.

"It's not over yet!" yelled Borkul, charging at Gondain with his sword raised. Gondain simply raised his shield and the crude sword shattered into pieces upon the hard ebony. The impact rebounded Borkul backwards, his hand and arm in considerable pain from the jolt. Gondain owned the moment, lunging forward and plunging his sword through Borkul's chest until the point emerged from his back.

Placing one armoured boot on Borkul's stomach, Gondain tugged his sword back out. Borkul gave a shuddering groan, and then died.

* * *

There was a thump as the dragon landed directly in front of Dar'epha, who had one paw still held against her nose. She tensed and prepared for a sideways leap, but no fire was forthcoming.

"Well met, Khajiit," it rumbled. "You fight with great speed and skill. I am Odahviing, Winged-Snow-Hunter."

Gondain trudged up to join the mismatched pair, attempting to clean his sword without much success. "Ah yes, I forgot you two hadn't met. Dar'epha, this is Odahviing, without who I wouldn't have been able to defeat Alduin."

"I think you would found a way, Dovahkiin," interjected the dragon.

Gondain grinned and continued. "And Odahviing, this is Dar'epha, the greatest thief and archer to ever walk the roads of Tamriel."

Dar'epha grinned in reply, then winced at the pain from her nose.

"What happened to you?" Gondain asked, approaching her.

"Hrgravm," she mumbled through her paw.

"Come on, give us a look," he said, pulling away her hand. "Ouch," he went on upon seeing the wound, "did you mean Hagraven? Evil creatures, those. I can probably clear that up with a simple healing spell, but it's probably going to scar."

"You know healing spells?" she asked in surprise. In all their travels, he'd never shown any skill in magic whatsoever, preferring to rely on potions for quick restoration.

"A couple," he said, preparing the spell. "I guess I'm still technically an initiate in the College of Winterhold, I really only joined because I needed to speak with their librarian. An orc, surprisingly. Was very grateful when I gave the Elder Scroll to him for safekeeping, he showed me a few basic things. There." He hand hovered near her nose and released a pleasant glowing light that enveloped her wound. "That ought to do it."

She reached up again to touch it. No further blood came away on her hand. "Thanks," she said.

He smiled with pride at his handiwork. "And those scars aren't too bad either, nothing out of the ordinary", he added.

Odahviing agreed. "Scars are good," he thundered, "Shows you're a survivor."

Gondain turned to face the red dragon. "And thanks for your help today, Odahviing. I owe you one."

"You owe me nothing, Dovahkiin," replied Odahviing, "It was an enjoyable morning snack." He gazed skywards. "And now I must be going. I promised Paarthurnax we'd go fishing."

Dar'epha's curiosity gave her enough courage to speak to the dragon. "Fishing?" she asked. "What do dragons go fishing for?"

"Horkers, giant squid, the occasional trading ship. Nothing too large," he replied, launching into the air with a single beat of his wings, staggering Dar'epha and Gondain. He circled once above them and gave a farewell roar, then he was gone, flapping away over the horizon, leaving the two friends alone in the Redoubt with smiles on their faces despite the massacred bodies strewn around them.

There was silence, neither of the two speaking or moving. Then, with a slow stride, Dar'epha moved to the river's edge and peered in, attempting to see her reflection. The fast-moving water didn't make it easy, but she could make out what would be a permanent reminder of the battle: three parallel diagonal lines across the bridge of her nose, the pale scars standing out against her dark fur.

She turned back to Gondain. "So that's it then?" she asked. "It's over? No more Forsworn?"

His brow furrowed. "No, writing them off completely would be naïve. We've put a massive dent in their numbers and taken out their leader, but they'll be back. It might take them months or years of scrambling over these hills fighting amongst themselves, but they'll be back eventually."

"So what are you going to do now?" She folded her arms across her chest.

"Eventually? Send yet another note to Jarl Igmund trying to explain that I'm not actually a member of the Forsworn. And I think maybe Angi and I will move somewhere quieter, settle down." He seemed weary, worn out from the sleepless nights out in the Reach, worn out from adventuring almost without a break since that fateful day when a dragon swooped down on Helgen.

"You? Settle down?" she prodded. She didn't believe it for one minute. He might be tired, might take a month or two off, but he'd be back on the road soon enough. Skyrim was too important to him, and he loved the thrill of adventure too much, to ever do anything else.

"Yeah, maybe." He looked like he didn't quite believe it himself. "Find someplace away from people. Angi's old hut, perhaps."

He broke off from that line of thought. "But right now," he said, "I could really use a drink."

Dar'epha squinted up at the sun. "But it's not even close to noon!" she objected.

"Ah, doesn't matter. Come on, we'll head to the Four Shields, my shout. You deserve it."

"We deserve it," she corrected, joining him in fording the river back to his little camp and onwards, to a warm hearth and delicious mead.


	6. Interlude: Stormblade

_~This is a short interlude to bridge the gap between the first and second arcs (although it turned out being nearly as long as my longest chapter). It also concluded in a way that was entirely opposite from what I had originally planned, the characters sort of took over. Anyway, new arc starts next time, I'm looking forward to it. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

A time of relative peace had transpired for Gondain after the battle at Druadach Redoubt. He and Dar'epha had made the journey to Riften together, spending two days in Honeyside in the company of Angi and her marvellous home-cooking. The two ladies seemed to have got on well enough, they spent a great deal of time swapping stories about him and laughing.

After a bit of convincing, Dar'epha had let Gondain take her on a trip down to the Ragged Flagon, where he'd introduced her to Delvin and Vex. They'd been impressed with her thieving history, even if they hadn't said as much. A successful test heist later and she was in, another member in the growing family of thieves, well on their way to restoring their name and home to its former glory.

Angi had agreed with her husband about moving somewhere quieter; and her old hut, where they'd first met, seemed like the best choice. Over a week, the two spent some time ferrying necessary possessions from their houses in Riften and Whiterun up to the hut south of Falkreath. Just before they made their final trip, Gondain had given the key to Breezehome in Whiterun to Dar'epha, telling her that she was welcome to use it whenever she was in the area. The Khajiit looked like she'd be sorry to see him go, but she was happy in her new life, she'd finally found a home among the disreputable lot that lived below the streets of Riften.

And so the couple moved into the hut on the mountain, neither ever complaining about the cold or the snows, or even the occasional troll or snow bear that wandered through looking for an easy meal. A quick blast of the Thu'um was usually enough to see them off. Even without his armour or weapons, Gondain was still more than a match for anything that might come by.

They survived, hunting in the mountains together, making trips down to Falkreath for supplies that they couldn't get themselves. Sometimes they even went further north to Lake Ilinalta for a spot of fishing. Life was pleasant and simple. Word gradually spread that the Dragonborn had retired and couriers stopping bringing letters full of pleas for help. The people of Skyrim had to solve their own problems.

Word filtered down to Falkreath that the College of Winterhold had found something while excavating the ancient Nord ruin of Saarthal. Details were never clear, no news about the College ever was. The only consistent facts seemed to be that a powerful artefact had been found, and it had somehow resulted in the death of the Arch-Mage Savos Aren. A new Arch-Mage, a young orc, had been appointed. Several versions of the story connected a Thalmor plot to the death of Savos Aren, but it seemed to Gondain little more than rumour, even though he was always willing to believe the worst about the Thalmor.

There were more sinister rumours, mentioning attempts by the Dark Brotherhood to expand operations and gain a greater name for themselves. These rumours concerned Gondain greatly, he considered the group of assassins to be a true threat to the peace and order in Skyrim that he'd worked so hard to establish. Thievery was one thing, he thought, wholesale murder was quite another. However, there seemed to be little he could do. Despite calling in a few favours, he was never able to find their base of operations. Even Delvin, who had had dealings with the Brotherhood's leader Astrid for some time, didn't know where the group had made their home. So, dropping off contact from the rest of Skyrim even further, Gondain and Angi continued their simple life in the mountains of Falkreath.

* * *

There was one notable incident that occurred during this time, before it all came to an end. Gondain had gone out fishing alone to Lake Ilinalta, Angi had preferred to stay at home and work on her archery. She always felt that there was more room for improvement.

Dressed in simple working clothes of grey and brown, with comfortable boots, his hat pulled down low over his eyes, Gondain relaxed in the afternoon sun, his fishing pole stretching lazily out into the lake. He'd had a successful trip so far, eight fish were already caught, tied on pieces of string in the shallows to keep them fresh. Old habits forced him to take his bow and sword most places he went, both laying within easy reach should trouble strike.

And strike it did.

"Dragonborn!" the shout rang out.

Gondain leapt into action, dropping his fishing pole and rolling to his right, picking up his sword as he did so, the end of the movement bringing him to his feet with blade at the ready. His eyes combed his surrounds, but there was nobody in sight. Only the quiet woods and the shimmering lake, now silent, the birdsong having ceased at the sound of the shout.

"Show yourself!" he yelled.

A Nord woman emerged from between the trees, built for fighting; with a stern face and blonde hair so light it could be mistaken for white. She was young, however, and carried a large two-handed broadsword on her back. More noticeably, she wore the armour of a Stormcloak officer, although her head was bare. She didn't come any further towards him, staying well out of sword-reach and well positioned to dive back into cover should the need arise. The features of her face nudged something vague in Gondain's memory.

"You're a hard man to find, Dragonborn," she said, her thick loud voice easily covering the distance between them.

Although he suspected that the scenario would soon descend into violence, Gondain decided to play it civil for the time being. He had somewhat of a reputation as a smooth-talker, using his honeyed words to work his way out of corners that others would have simply cut through with an axe.

"To what do I owe the pleasure? And who might you be, wearing the armour of a defeated cause?" he asked, his hatred of the civil war coming back to him with a rush. How their short-sightedness had almost torn Skyrim apart.

"There are still those who hold true to Ulfric's dream of a free Skyrim," she replied, gritting her teeth at his dismissal of her cause.

Gondain shook his head ruefully. "The civil war is over. You lost, and Skyrim is stronger for it. What are you doing out here holding onto long-forgotten grudges for?" He felt pity for her, another who'd clearly been taken in by Ulfric's sweetened voice and slick speeches, tricked into fighting for a misguided cause.

Her anger rose in her face, her cheeks red and her brow heavily furrowed. Her mouth twisted and spat out her words. "Because it was you! You turned the tide for the Legion! You slaughtered countless true sons and daughters of Skyrim! You led the charge in the attack on Windhelm!"

"So that's what this is? Revenge?" Gondain sighed. "I did what had to be done to hold Skyrim together. This is as much my home as yours; it has been ever since…"

"Since Helgen?" she interrupted.

"You… I remember now. You were there, lined up for the block with the rest of us." Gondain's memories came flooding back, that fateful day which had started him off on a series of events that would lead him to becoming probably the most famous person in Skyrim besides Tiber Septim himself.

"You saw what the Legion was doing! They were going to execute all of us, and you still sided with them!" She paused for a moment and seemed to calm herself. "You fought with such skill during our escape with Ralof through the Keep; I thought you could fight with us, help us reclaim Skyrim! And then there you were: foiling our efforts to get the Jagged Crown, leading the assaults on countless of our forts… the Dragonborn himself, an enlisted soldier in the Legion! Do you know how many deserted just because they heard you were against us? If only you'd made the right choice from the beginning…"

"I did make the right choice," he said decisively. "The worship of Talos is unimportant compared to the threat of the Aldmeri Dominion. When the time comes for war again, we'll need every part of the Empire united to stop them. That includes Skyrim."

"You still don't understand, after all this time, do you? There's a principle at stake," she retaliated.

"There's misplaced Nord pride at stake, nothing else. Skyrim is a better place now for all who dwell here." He was growing impatient. He'd made these arguments many times over. "If you want to try and kill me for what you think I've done, then let's just get to it. I've had enough of talking."

"Why don't you just blast me over the horizon with your Voice?" she asked.

"Because I have honour, strange as that may seem to you. Despite your bigger sword and your armour, we will fight, and you will die." His shifted his weight into a fighting stance.

"Don't you want to know who it is that'll be sending you to Oblivion?" she asked, drawing her massive sword and grasping it firmly in both hands.

Gondain chuckled. "Fine, what's your name?"

"Stormblade. Kara Stormblade."

He met her eyes. "I heard tell of a Stormblade, during the war. One of Ulfric's favourites; rumoured to be his lover. Brave too, quite a thorn in the Legion's side. Assumed dead during the attack on Windhelm. That wouldn't be you, would it?"

Her cheeks flushed red again, and a fire appeared in her eyes that reminded Gondain of himself. "All that and more, you son-of-a-bitch," she growled. "He was a better man than you could ever hope to be. Now, let's do this." She gritted her teeth and charged towards him, sword over her head, coming in with a skull-cleaving downward slash.

Gondain skipped lightly to the right, easily evading the attack. As the momentum of the blade carried it into the earth with a soft thump, he planted a boot in her side and toppled her over.

Her anger was infectious, he found himself filled with a similar rage. "Have you really survived so long with such poor skills?" he taunted her. She roared with fury and reared up with her sword, making a powerful swing that would no doubt have taken off his head in one go had he not ducked and slid to the left, giving her a light cut on the belly on his way past. She staggered, and he moved back out of the reach of her blade.

"You've got strength, I'll give you that," he went on. "And you're faster than you should be with that hulking weapon. But you don't think; you just rush in blind, swinging wildly and hoping that when you're done you'll still be standing and your enemy won't. Maybe you think it'll intimidate them. That might work on lowlifes in the gutter or fresh-faced Legion recruits, but you're going to have try a lot harder if you want to beat me."

Barely hearing him through the red mist that had clearly descended upon her thoughts, she grunted and came at him again, this time bringing the sword around from over her shoulder. This time Gondain met it with own sword, stopping the strike with a jolt that went all the way up both his arms. Her attacks certainly had weight behind them, he thought.

"And you're not listening to anything I'm saying," he said, as they struggled and pushed against each other's weapons. "If you just took my advice, maybe you'd do better." Giving a great shove, he sent her flying backwards, sprawling on the dirt, her sword wrenched from her hand and falling out of her reach. She looked up at him, certain her end had come. Instead of delivering the killing blow, he backed away several steps.

"Pick up your weapon," he said flatly. "Let's try again." The rage that had infected him lifted, he saw clearly the woman before him. He wondered how young she was. Many years younger than him, certainly. And her life now cursed with death and despair. The Stormcloaks were no longer welcome in any city or town, how long had she been on the run, hiding in the wildest corners of Skyrim? He saw in her face the lack of sleep that had so often been reflected in his own.

She scrambled to her feet and reclaimed her weapon, clearly confused at his changed manner. The two stood facing each other in silence for what seemed like an era. When Gondain finally spoke, his voice was weary and slow, speaking each word carefully.

"I have no quarrel with you, Kara. There was a time when I would have killed you without a second thought, moving onto the next fight and never looking back." He paused, scratched his stubble with his free hand. "That time is past. I am truly sorry for your loss. I know what it's like to lose someone like that. I've seen too many good men and women die and I won't see it happen anymore…" He lapsed into silence, lost in memory. He remembered the vampire's claws opening Lydia's throat, the daedric sword cleaving through Jenassa, the shock spell frying Erik's mind. He remembered Belrand's body sweeping away down the river, the giant's club crushing Illia's skull, the sacrifice he'd forced Stenvar to make in the name of Boethiah. He remembered all of them, his memories a daily curse.

He addressed her by name again. "Kara, I don't want to fight you. I'm certainly not going to kill you. If you want to go after the man who killed Ulfric, his name is General Tullius, and he's in Castle Dour surrounded by loyal men. You're not stupid, you don't want to die. Give up this crusade. Reclaim your life."

Silence reigned again by the lakeside. Kara stared at the ground, her thoughts whirling and chaotic. Should she let it all go? Could she? She took a deep breath and, letting it out, let the point of her sword lower to the ground.

"I see it now… I've been a fool, trying to block out thoughts of Ulfric with thoughts of death. I almost hoped you'd kill me." Her voice was low, her anger completely vanished.

Gondain nodded with understanding. "You can't block it out; otherwise you'll only ever live a shadow of a life. Accept it, let it in. Ulfric may be gone, but you're not. Your life stretches out before you, make the most of it."

Returning her sword to its place on her back, she spoke with slow realisation. "Yes… I need to go home, to grieve properly. I used to have friends in Windhelm, maybe they'll help me."

Gondain's smile was tinged with sadness. "If they're any kind of friends, they'll just be glad to know you're alright. Oh, and you might want to get yourself some different clothes. Lot of ex-Legion in the guards, Stormcloaks aren't exactly welcome."

"Yes, I will, I… I better get going," she said. She turned back the way she'd come and paced slowly away. At the tree-line she stopped and looked over her shoulder back at him.

"Thanks," she said softly.

Gondain stood unmoving for a long time after she'd gone, still holding his sword loosely in one hand. Coming to his senses, he moved with practiced ease, gathering the fish he'd caught, sticking his sword through his belt and shouldering his pack and quiver. Carrying his bow lightly in one hand, taking a moment to adjust his hat, he moved south towards home as the first signs of dusk flickered in the wide sky.

* * *

The snow was drifting slowly down as the evening gathered. Gondain felt a glow in his heart as his home came into sight, seeing the warm light of the fire through the windows. A smile spread across his face and his pace quickened, almost running the last stretch.

"Evening, dear," said his wife in greeting as he shut the door gently behind him. "How'd the fishing go?" The sound of her voice instantly washed away all the troubles of the day, he was happy again.

"Didn't get as many as I would've liked," he replied, removing the fish from his pack and hanging them over the mantle. "I had to give out some life lessons."

Angi raised a quizzical eyebrow.

"I'll explain later," he said, joining her by the fire. "For now, I just want to be here with you. And eat whatever delicious smelling meal you've concocted." She smiled her smile that always made his heart melt, taking his hands in hers. Their lips met, and in that moment everything was good and true in the world.


	7. Murder in the Arcanaeum

_Here it is, first chapter of the second arc. It'll switch perspective each chapter across various OCs. I've also made quite a few departures from Skyrim's own storyline for the benefit of tying more of my characters together. Anyway, thanks for sticking with it._**  
**

* * *

**Arch-Mage's quarters, College of Winterhold**

Vash gro-Nul crumpled onto the bench with his head in his hands. Almost a year since he'd become Arch-Mage, a year of success and prosperity, a year of breaking new ground. He should've known that the run of good luck would have to wear out eventually. But murder… in his College? It wore so heavily upon his soul. He was in charge, he had to take responsibility. Even if none of the other mages blamed him, he would certainly blame himself.

The faint light of the morning sifted gently through the high windows of his quarters. He hadn't slept since it had happened. It had been late, late even for him. He'd gone down to the Arcanaeum to ask Urag if they had a copy of Herbane's Bestiary, specifically the edition on automatons, to see if it had anything interesting to add on the topic. He'd had a brief encounter with a broken wreck of a Centurion while exploring Sightless Pit, but a rather large amount of Falmer had arrived, the course of the battle taking him away from what could have been a revealing investigation.

However, upon entering the Arcanaeum, he'd discovered the scene of a heinous crime. Urag gro-Shub, the librarian of the College, lay slumped in his chair with his throat slit. Vash had been struck with horror, frozen to the spot. Who could have done such a terrible thing? There was a flicker of movement in the corner of his vision and he dived forward, a movement that undoubtedly saved his life. Coming to his feet, he quickly turned and summoned a strong ward with his left hand, spraying fire in an arc before him with his right. Although the flames did not cause significant injury to their target, they did have the intended effect of breaking the unseen foe's invisibility spell.

The air shimmered and revealed a dark elf woman, clad in close-fitting hooded armour of black and red. Seeing her cover broken, she took one look at the fury burning in Vash's face and fled, moving with incredible speed, already halfway down the first flight of stairs before he could make his next move. With quick thinking and even quicker casting, he went after her, taking each flight of stairs in one downwards leap, barely slowing his impacts with carefully timed use of telekinesis. But when he broke through the main door into the courtyard of the College, she was nowhere to be seen. Sprinting to the gates, he fell to his knees in defeat; there was no sign of her on the suspended bridge down to the township, not even prints in the snow.

Those moments played over and over in Vash's head, damning himself more every time. The chaos that had ensued afterwards, as all the mages rose from their beds to address the tragedy, had elicited very few actually useful pieces of information as everyone tried to add their own 'expert' opinion. Enthir, with his less-than-reputable connections, had recognised Vash's description straight away. The Dark Brotherhood, he'd said. On the rise once more, carrying out their deadly business throughout Skyrim, that was the rumour. Several of the others had examined Urag's body, all concluding, after various disagreements, that his death had been instantaneous. Urag probably hadn't felt a thing.

Drevis Neloren had led the scouring of the College grounds, instructing others to travel in pairs and use a variety of Illusion spells designed to reveal the unseen. The students had risen to the challenge very well, but no trace of the assassin had been found.

The scraping of feet against stone indicated a visitor in his quarters, so Vash rose from his seat to address them. He was heavily built like all Orsimer, with rough features and a thick brow. A short beard extended out of his hood, a greyish colour that often caused people, along with his mannerisms, to attribute him as much older than he really was. The hair on his head was shaved very short, although hidden by the hood that formed part of his robes of office.

The visitor was Tolfdir, Master-Wizard, his aged face furrowed with concern.

"Apologies for the interruption, Arch-Mage, but the others wanted me to let you know that we thought we'd hold the funeral tomorrow. Faralda suggested we light the pyre on top of one of the towers…" he trailed off. Vash seemed to be barely listening.

"Arch-Mage?" Tolfdir asked. "Are you alright?"

"Now," Vash replied. "Let's do it now. No reason to leave his body lying cold any longer than it has to. I'll take the students out, we'll get some wood."

Tolfdir sighed. "Nobody's slept much, but I'm sure they'll help you if you ask, Arch-Mage."

Vash nodded slowly and made towards his wardrobe, retrieving his thickest pair of boots and gloves, ever the better to deal with the harsh winds and bitter cold of Winterhold. He turned back to Tolfdir as he headed to the stairs.

"And I've told you, stop calling me Arch-Mage. My name's Vash."

Tolfdir expression was unmoving. "It's a gesture of respect, Arch-Mage", he said.

Vash understood. He'd made significant progress in restoring the relationship between the College and the rest of Skyrim, and was always accessible to any of the mages or townsfolk who required aid. They respected him highly for it; he was hard working and genuinely cared about the welfare of those around him. He'd even made some attempts to help restore the town, working with Jarl Kraldar to repair the destroyed houses. There were plans for many more.

The students were quick to help. Onmund the Nord, J'zargo the Khajiit, and Brelyna Maryon the Dunmer were the only three current students, after Vash had been raised so quickly through the ranks. They bore no grudges about it however, retaining the respect shared by the others. They encountered Enthir on their way out, on his way up from the town. He was happy to join them, despite the chilling wind that blew right through their bones.

Within the hour, they were ready for the ceremony.

* * *

On the roof of the Hall of Countenance, Urag gro-Shub's body lay on a burning pyre, lit by a small flame conjured by Vash. Every member of the College was gathered around the pyre in a circle, standing in silent remembrance of their departed colleague.

Gradually the mourners departed, most to bed, despite it still being early morning. Only Vash remained, still staring into the flames. When he'd first arrived at the College he had been so glad to find Urag, not only a fellow Orc mage, but also someone who shared his interest in books. Urag had been gruff, as he always was, but he had seen a young orc who could go far. Together they'd expanded the Arcanaeum's collection considerably, Vash always willing to travel the breadth of Skyrim and delve into dark caverns for the cause of expanding knowledge. The shelves now bulged with tomes of every description, salvaged from the darkest depths of ancient ruins, bought from merchants travelling far from home and, in one or two cases, stolen. Vash had felt a little bad about those rare instances, but he was more than capable of justifying his actions to himself.

Vash decided he needed a drink. A walk down to the Frozen Hearth was in order. On the walk across the bridge he had another fit of guilt. Maybe if he'd just gone down to the Arcanaeum a few minutes earlier, he could have saved Urag. Maybe if he'd just reacted a bit faster he could have caught the assassin. The need for revenge burned in his heart, a feeling he hadn't felt since Savos Aren had died and he'd torn through Labyrinthian looking for the Staff of Magnus, returning to the College to rip Ancano apart with fire and lightning.

Brushing the snow off his feet, he creaked open the door to Winterhold's inn. He saw Tolfdir and Sergius Turrianus, the College's foremost enchanter, sharing a drink at one of the benches. He gave them both a nod in greeting and moved to the bar.

"Ale," he said, slumping on a barstool. The bartender, Dagur, a well-meaning Nord, produced it without mentioning the early hour.

"Sorry to hear about Urag," he said as he produced the bottle and poured it into a tankard, sliding it across the bar.

"Thanks, Dagur," Vash replied shortly. He didn't particularly want to talk about it, but Dagur didn't seem to get the hint.

"Sergius said something about it being a Dark Brotherhood contract?" the bartender went on. "There seem to be more and more of them these days. Why, just yesterday I heard a butcher was killed in broad daylight at his stall in Whiterun."

This information was added to the swirling mess in Vash's mind. A wild idea occurred to him. He quickly downed the remaining ale and slid the appropriate amount of septims across the bar. Thanking Dagur again absent-mindedly, he strode over to where Tolfdir and Sergius were sitting opposite each other. Sliding in next to Tolfdir, he laid his palms flat on the table.

"I'm leaving for a while," he said. "Going to try and track down the Dark Brotherhood, maybe find whoever ordered the contract. Tolfdir, as Master-Wizard, you're in charge until I get back."

The two mages accepted the news easily. Vash had always had a penchant for vanishing on adventures. Since accepting the post of Arch-Mage he'd curtailed such expeditions, recognising his responsibilities, but this was more than just a desire to find that missing book, that lost artefact. This was personal.

Tolfdir cleared his throat quietly. "There's another matter: a new librarian. We need someone in charge of the Arcanaeum," he said.

Vash thought, running through all the mages in his head. "Well, you two can't do it, you've got other responsibilities." Sergius let out a small sigh of relief, performing enchantments for the people of Skyrim already took up most of his days. Vash went on. "I can't give the post to Faralda or Nirya; they'll see it as favouritism either way. Enthir's too unscrupulous, Colette's too bumbling." The last assessment elicited a chuckle from the other two mages. "I'll probably be better off promoting one of the students."

Tolfdir nodded approvingly. "That was my conclusion also, Arch-Mage," he agreed.

"Brelyna's too occupied with her experiments, J'zargo's too occupied with… fire. It seems Onmund is the only choice. He has been at a loose end as where to focus his studies. Maybe this'll help, and he is dedicated."

Tolfdir and Sergius agreed. "So it is then," said Sergius, "Onmund is our new librarian. Will you tell him yourself?"

"Yes, I owe him that much. I'll go pack a few things, tell him, and be on my way." Vash stood up, the other two copying his movement. He shook hands with both of them.

"Farewell," said Tolfdir, "and know that Urag would be proud of you."

"You're not as dumb as you look," added Sergius, "I'm sure you'll be back in no time."

Bidding a final goodbye, Vash exited the inn. As he opened the door he caught a fragment of Tolfdir's words behind him as the two mages returned to their seats.

"…seen my alembic have you? I seem to have misplaced it."

With a small chuckle, Vash stepped out into the falling snow.

* * *

After being woken from his bed in the Hall of Attainment, Onmund had gladly accepted the post. So, gathering up a satchel of supplies, Vash gro-Nul left his College for the city of Whiterun.

The lack of horses and carriages had forced him to go on foot, but he made good time regardless, encountering no trouble along the road. After heading a ways south of the Legion-held Fort Kastav, he met the road that ran east-west. East would take him to Windhelm, a short walk, and no doubt there'd be a carriage there that could take him the rest of the way. But the driver would take the long route south and west, hugging the Darkwater and White rivers. Vash instead decided to head west on foot, past the Nightgate Inn where he often stopped on his way to and from the College.

But there was no time for that now, thought Vash. He'd pass it straight by, heading properly into the Pale, then turning south towards Whiterun.

He sped up his long strides, the snow crunching under his feet. Perhaps in Whiterun, he thought, he might find a way to get his vengeance.


	8. Short Deaths

**West of Stonehills mine, Hjaalmarch**

Vialas Maryon had made the distance to her next contract as quickly as possible. The look in the orc mage's eyes had unsettled her; there was a raw violence in him the same as all orcs she'd met. Still, the contract had been fulfilled. It'd been a shame that she hadn't had time to stay a moment and feast on the mark's still pumping blood. Her vampiric appearance was beginning to become more apparent. Dunmer were already noticeable in Skyrim, she could do without further complications.

She should have killed both orcs, she knew that. But he'd seen her too soon; she'd lost her chance to slit his throat open like his friend. She'd been seen! She hadn't meant to be seen, not on that job. Nobody saw her unless she wanted them to, or they were a fellow member of the Dark Brotherhood.

Ha, the Dark Brotherhood! Now there was a bunch of wonderfully despicable people. Vialas' brutal murder of Grelod 'the Kind' had attracted the group's attention; murdering another three in front of Astrid had secured her entry into the fold. She was even starting to like them.

Except Cicero. He was loud and rude, qualities that Vialas despised. She preferred the company of Veezara or Gabriella, soft-spoken and indeed perfectly happy to sit in silence for any length of time. The Night Mother had been an unwelcome development as well. Despite what aid she might be able to provide, despite whatever contract this so-called Amaund Motierre might offer, there was something unsettling about her, and it wasn't just the fact that she was a preserved corpse.

A _talking_ preserved corpse, no less. Listener was not a position that Vialas had particularly wanted, but she had been granted it anyway. These contracts had simply been a way of getting her out of the way while Astrid decided what in Oblivion she was going to do about the whole thing. Vialas had been reluctant to take the College contract, despite the chances of running into her sister being fairly low. A College full of powerful mages was not a place she'd wanted to spend any longer in than necessary. But Astrid had given the order, and away she'd gone.

And with that dealt with, she was on her way to her next contract, another orc as chance would have it, a bard by the name of Lurbuk, residing at the Moorside Inn in Morthal. Definitely the easiest she'd done in a while, by the sound of it.

Keeping just off the road and out of sight, she approached the town of Morthal.

She veered further off the road, approaching the town from the east among the twisted trees and low fog, all in her favour. She silently approached the house at the end of the dock, staying low and unseen.

Not her preferred time of day, with the sun still rising higher, but she'd have to make do. Preparing an invisibility spell, she leapt into the water, casting just as she dropped below the surface. Swimming swiftly, she came up for breath on the other side, next to what seemed to be an alchemist's shop, going by the sign out front. But there was no time for that. Feeling her spell draining, she darted across the main road, her steps silent. She was opening the door to the Moorside Inn just as her invisibility faded. She pulled her hood down lower over her face to compensate. Better to keep her identity at least somewhat hidden.

Her tight-fitting garb drew a few looks inside the inn, but she cared not for such things. Her mark was easy to spot, the only orc in town. He was bent over a bench facing away from her, scribbling on parchment, no doubt composing another one of his abysmal ballads. Indeed, they were apparently so abysmal that Astrid had had to hold a lottery to determine just who got to put in the contract.

She cleared the distance to him in an instant, a shout calling out from another patron at the sight of her drawing her ebony dagger. But it was not warning enough for Lurbuk.

Vialas' heart pumped fast with excitement, the thrill of the kill surging through her veins. This was her calling; this was what she had been born to do. The dagger sliced easily through the orc's soft throat, ending his life in the blink of an eye.

His blood spurted in a glorious arc, spraying across the bench and the floor. Pure poetry, thought Vialas. The poetry of murder.

She wished there was time to feed. Circumstances seemed to be against her on that one. Maybe she'd be more subtle next time, kill her next contract in a quiet place where she could feast as their heart pumped for the final few times.

The other patrons of the inn rose in horror, drawing their weapons. Before they could get within striking distance, she was on her way out, diving through the door back outside, sprinting to the right, through the remains of an old burnt-down house at the end of the path and leaping up, up from stone to stone, through a sad-looking graveyard and further, still running, out of sight and out of reach.

She couldn't stop herself from grinning. As much as she enjoyed the silent assassination, there was something highly appealing about a nice public murder.

* * *

**Half-Moon Mill, Falkreath**

The sun high in the sky, Vialas crouched under the wooden bridge near the mill itself, silently watching and waiting.

Her contract: kill Hern, and his wife Hert if necessary. The catch, as Nazir had put it when explaining her three contracts, was that the pair were vampires. The Redguard assassin had wondered if she experienced any reluctance about killing her own kind, but she was quick to correct him on that account. She'd only met one nice vampire in her short life and that was Babette, the three hundred year-old fellow Brotherhood member.

However, this contract had ended up being the last of the three she'd got to. She'd wanted to get the College one out of the way, it being the most dangerous. After the quick kill in Morthal, these vampires were just her final stop a short way from the Sanctuary and home. She was beginning to think of it as home, she noticed, despite its current state of upheaval. She'd learnt the hard way not to get attached to people; she didn't want to make the same mistakes again. But it did seem different this time, she thought. These were good people, who shared her passion for death. Perhaps she could make a home with them, despite her reservations.

Her target was nowhere in sight, presumably still inside the house. His wife however, was chopping wood, seemingly unaffected by or ignoring the bright sunlight. Vialas might be able to get to the house without being detected by Hert, but there was no telling what was inside, or whether she'd be able to leave again just as quietly. Hert had to be taken out, that was her conclusion.

Drawing her dagger with one hand, she cast a muffle spell with the other. Illusion was the only school of magic she considered herself competent in, although she was certainly interested in exploring the others. Seeing Festus Krex work had opened her eyes to a whole new world of assassination possibilities.

At the same time as Hert's axe fell, cleaving another log in two, Vialas' dagger opened the woman's throat. Her death was instantaneous, she fell to the earth, leaving the woodcutting axe buried in the chopping block. Vialas worked it free quickly, wanting to spend as little time in the sun as possible. It was time for something a little less subtle.

Sheathing her dagger, she hefted the axe with one hand, swinging it a few times to get its weight. Striding to the door of the house, she knocked three times, letting the axe hang loosely by her side. The door opened to reveal a large man who was no doubt Hern. She could see the vampirism in his eyes, and hoped that her own condition was not quite as obvious. She smiled an evil smile, timing her moment.

"Yes?" he asked, clearly having only just risen from his bed to answer the door, "Need something?"

Vialas replied with the axe instead of words. The first strike caught him in the gut and he fell to his knees, a strangled cry on his lips. Another hit almost took his left arm off. He slumped to the ground, looking straight into her eyes as she raised the axe for the final bloody blow. In her eyes he saw the affliction, the curse that he knew so well. He spluttered blood, trying to speak some last words, but he was too late. The axe rent his skull; Hern's life was snuffed out.

Vialas left the bodies where they fell, no doubt to be discovered by some passing traveller. Picking up her stride, she headed for the cave full of killers she called home.

* * *

**Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, Falkreath**

The Black Door creaked open at her command. Descending into the Sanctuary, she found Astrid in the first room, poring over her map as per usual. Her blonde hair swayed slightly as she looked up at Vialas' entrance.

"I'm glad you're back," spoke the leader of the Dark Brotherhood. "I've reached a decision. Seek out this Amaund Motierre and see who he wants dead. Report back to me as soon as you're done." She paused, remembering where Vialas had been. "How did your contracts go?" she asked.

Vialas was reluctant to mention the furious orc mage pursuing her through the College.

"I got the job done," she said. She pulled pack her hood, revealing her short black hair and elvish ears.

"And that's all we ask," continued Astrid. "Get your reward from Nazir, then head straight to the meeting at Volenruud." She turned back to her map, forestalling any objections.

Not there would have been any; if the Night Mother's information could help restore the Dark Brotherhood then Vialas would be right on it. Walking down the next flight of stairs and into the sanctuary proper, she gave Arnbjorn a smile as she passed him, working on one of his blades at the grindstone. He was gruff, but she was winning him over.

Making her way to the dining room, she found Nazir and Gabriella, talking across the table. She paused at the top of the stairs to listen, not making her entrance known.

"Word certainly travels fast, doesn't it?" said Gabriella, leaning forward to rest her arms on the table. Her red Dunmeri eyes twinkled with delight.

"It's the part with the severed head I find most impressive. My compliments," replied Nazir. His large Redguard frame towered over the other members, and only Arnbjorn could match him in strength. But then, relying on strength was only one way to go about assassinating people.

"In the end," Gabriella continued, "I relied on a woman's natural weapons – beauty and seduction. The rest was a formality. Although, a rather wet, messy formality."

Nazir chuckled, and turned to see Vialas descending the stairs towards them.

"Ah, sister!" he exclaimed, "Three contracts in one trip, how did you manage?"

Vialas slid into the chair next to Gabriella, smiling delicately. "No trouble at all, three more souls have been sent spiralling into Oblivion."

The two looked impressed. "You're doing quite well around here," said Nazir, "Fitting in nicely, your varied approaches are to be commended."

Gabriella agreed. "Indeed, sister," she said, "Your work on the miner contract in Dawnstar was most delicious."

Vialas' smile grew. "Afraid I can't stay long; Astrid's sending me off to meet this Amaund Motierre."

Nazir frowned. "And a good thing too," he said, "We could use some good news around here, what with that mad clown prancing about gibbering to himself."

The two Dunmer women remained silent. Cicero was a touchy subject around the sanctuary, and he had the unnerving ability of popping up whenever you were talking about him.

"Anyhow," Nazir went on, "here's your cut for the three kills, librarian, bard, and vampire." He tossed a sizeable coin pouch across the table, Vialas caught it with ease. She tucked it into one of the many pockets in her uniform.

She rose from the table. "Never fear, brother, dear sister, there shall be time for many tales of murder most exquisite when I return."

Nazir spoke again. "If you see Festus on your way out, tell him he's late. The contract he's on shouldn't be taking this long; it's only on the other side of Falkreath. Old man's getting slow." The three all smiled knowingly. Festus Krex was still as sharp as ever, and so many different kinds of dangerous.

"Good luck," added Nazir.

"Good luck, sister," echoed Gabriella.

Vialas lowered her head in farewell. Then she was on her way, to a meeting that could decide, one way or another, the future of the Dark Brotherhood.


	9. A Quest for Vengeance

_~My apologies for this one taking longer than usual, I went to a concert instead of finishing this chapter. Anyways, thanks for reading.~_**  
**

* * *

**North of Angi's Camp, Falkreath**

At the same time as Vash gro-Nul was building a pyre for his departed friend, and as Vialas Maryon was approaching her contract in Morthal, Gondain was on his way home to his wife.

He'd risen early that morning, making a trip down to the town of Falkreath for supplies that they couldn't procure themselves. He'd made good time, finishing his business at Grey Pine Goods quickly and spending a few extra septims at Grave Concoctions to bolster their potion reserves. It's not like they were short on gold, Gondain had reasoned. His adventures had provided him with enough coin to live comfortably for a lifetime if he so wished. But instead he'd found love with Angi, and they had made the decision to live in her hut far up in the mountains south of Falkreath. Gondain had made many structural improvements to the house, making a perfectly liveable place to spend his retirement. About a year and a half they'd lived there together, Gondain thought, trying to reach back in his memory for the dates. Ah, what did dates matter? He was happy. They were happy.

He'd reached the snowline when he saw the smoke. More smoke than should have been coming from their chimney. Squinting at the cloud of it billowing up into the white sky, he broke into a run, wishing he'd brought his sword, wishing he hadn't gotten complacent.

Sprinting the last distance to the hut, he pulled his hunting knife from his belt, slid the pack off his shoulder and, seeing the door hung open, dropped into a roll through the opening, coming up with blade at the ready to take on any enemy.

But there was no enemy. Instead, Angi lay sprawled on the floor, her body blackened and burned, a horrendous gash in her chest, her lifeless form a twisted mockery of what once was.

Dropping his knife, he moved to her side, ignoring the fire that was trying to spread to the whole hut, escaping from the hearth and working its way up the wall to the ceiling. He gently cradled her body in his arms, lifting her slowly from the floor and carrying her outside. He set her down gently in the snow.

That was when he noticed the dagger in her hand. Prizing it from her grip, he saw the blood it was stained with. A lot of blood. He tried to put the pieces together in his mind. There'd been an attacker, unsuspected, sudden. Both fire and blade had been used to kill Angi, but she'd struggled, fought back, hadn't given up until her last breath.

Scanning the area, he made out the blood trail clearly. She'd inflicted a deadly wound upon her killer before her life had ended, and that had sealed their fate.

One thing to deal with first, he thought. Striding back into the hut, he readied his Thu'um.

"_Fo-Krah-Diin!_" he Shouted, letting loose an icy blast that instantly doused the spreading fire. Hefting the dagger he'd take from his wife, he left the hut and followed the blood trail as it led north, not down the path but straight down the side of the mountain, taking the direct route back towards Falkreath.

Leaping and clambering down from one jagged rock to the next, Gondain was filled with whirling rage. Whoever had killed his wife must pay, a life for a life. The trail continued, the killer having lost a seriously dangerous amount of blood by this point. Breaking down away from the snowline he saw Peak's Shade Tower a short ways ahead of him, the trail leading directly to it.

He slowed his steps, moving silently, and paused outside the door to the ruined tower, flattening himself against the wall. Muttering could be heard within.

"Nice easy contract, he said. Chance to test your new spell, he said." The voice descended into a wet spluttering cough.

Another Thu'um was called for here, Gondain thought. He turned and plunged through the door.

"_Tiid-Klo-Ul!_" he Shouted, and time slowed to a crawl. The killer, an old man dressed in red and black robes, propping himself up against the opposite wall, attempted to cast a destruction spell. But the Dragonborn moved faster than any assassin could ever hope to. The Voice was a power with few equals.

The spell was never cast. Gondain's blade thundered down, striking and slashing again and again. Even after the effects of the Shout had faded he still plunged the knife into the now-mangled corpse. Finally, he let the knife fall and his arm lower, the blood splattered across his face, arms and chest, his boots soaked where it had pooled. Vengeance had been delivered.

He sat and waited for the haze to clear, waited for the red mist that had descended over him to lift. Leaning his back against the wall opposite the mangled body, he crossed his legs and attempted to meditate in the style of the Greybeards. He never attained the inner peace or quiet wisdom the Greybeards had spoken of, but it did calm him somewhat, freeing his mind from inner scenes of bloody and vicious revenge.

Reaching back into his memories, he found what he was searching for. The dead man's red and black robes, the mark of the black hand on his clothes, his murderous act at the house, all marked him as a member of the Dark Brotherhood. Nobody had any clue where their base of operations was hidden, but if he still had the contract on his person…

Rising from the floor, Gondain attempted to search the body, a task made difficult by his own recent killing strokes. After a short bit of rather unpleasant rummaging, he pulled out a crumpled and wet note. Bloodstains had made sections of it unreadable, but some parts could still be made out.

"… _eans necessary. The Bl … crament has been performed … body wants … dead. We've already receiv … the contract. Fai … not an option."_

And beneath the rest of the words, the sender had signed their name, by chance unobscured by the red stain.

"_Astrid."_

* * *

The walk back to the hut felt like an age to Gondain. Returning to Angi's body, he fell to his knees in the snow beside her, resting a hand on her shoulder, lightly stroking her cheek with the tip of his finger. He didn't know how long he stayed by her side, seconds or hours, he didn't care. The world had darkened for him; the light of his life had gone out, vanished from this mortal plane. Turning away from her, he shuffled back to the hut and retrieved a shovel.

He dug a deep grave in the hard and frozen earth, not wanting the animals to have a single piece of her. It was back-breaking work, even for him, but he kept at it. She deserved so much better, he thought. Enfolding her in his arms one last time, he lowered her down into her final resting place. As he shovelled the last clump of snow over her a tear rolled down his cheek, with many others following after. They didn't stop until after he'd laid the final stone on the cairn.

Drying his eyes with his sleeve, he retreated into the hut, unable to face her grave any longer. He looked around the home they'd built together, now all for nothing. He had to leave; there was no way he could stand living there on his own. Without Angi's warmth, it seemed empty and hollow, a dead place. Hauling a chest out from under the bed, he prized it open to retrieve a substantial amount of gold and an ebony sword, relics of a past life. Buckling the sword onto his belt, he set about packing, trying to concoct a plan in his head at the same time.

The main of what he sought was revenge, but there was a wider motive as well. The Dark Brotherhood were a blight on the Skyrim he'd fought so tirelessly to protect and he'd be damned if he'd let them get away with their vile deeds any longer. But he'd need equipment, he'd need allies. He reasoned he'd go to Breezehome, his house in Whiterun, where most of his weapons, armour, gold and equipment were stored. From there he could send messages and call in favours, he assumed someone in the Thieves Guild would have to know something about the Dark Brotherhood.

A last glance around the house revealed that it was well stocked with wood and supplies. Perhaps a lone trapper or hunter might make use of its comforts in the future; find a saviour in the warmth of its hearth. But Gondain did not intend to set foot inside the hut again, at least not until vengeance was served against those who would dare lay a hand on his love. This… Astrid, the whole Dark Brotherhood, whoever had ordered the contract, they would all die, they would all feel the cold embrace of death by the Dragonborn's hand one way or another.

Closing the door behind him, Gondain squinted up into the sky. He'd spent more time grave-digging than he'd thought; it was unlikely he'd make it to Whiterun before dark. Shouldering his pack, he moved on regardless, making large strides through the snow down the mountain path back towards a tumultuous world he thought he'd escaped from when he'd met Angi.

But now there would be no escape, not for Gondain, not for his enemies.

The Dragonborn was back.


	10. The Mind of a Madman

_~Alright, last new character for a while, I promise. We'll get Dar'Epha back into it soon, then get on with the story. Thanks for reading~_

* * *

**Pelagia Farm, Whiterun**

Evening crept slowly over the plains of Whiterun. Jonah spared a moment to glance up at the shadow of Dragonsreach that dominated the skyline. Night was approaching, this was his time. He'd spent most of the day sleeping in a cave to the east, White River Watch, having had no trouble in clearing the place of bandits. Indeed, many had tried to flee before his wrath, flee from his garbled roars and frenzied killing blows.

Jonah was a large Redguard man; his muscles bulged underneath his simple iron armour, mismatched with dwarven boots and steel gauntlets. On his left arm was strapped a banded iron shield, well-worn with use, and his right hand carried a bloodstained mace of orcish make. All this equipment had been scavenged from fallen opponents. He wore no helmet, leaving his battered features open for all to see. His hair was long, down to his shoulders, and was on its way from brown to grey, although his age could not be determined. A messy short beard completed the scruffy picture. But it was his eyes that were the most striking. Sunk deep in his face, a vicious scar ran vertically over the left one, an incident that had turned that eye a pure milky white. The remaining eye was intensely bloodshot, and pulsed with a mad fury that had stared down foes all over Skyrim.

Easily leaping the fence that bordered Pelagia Farm, he made long strides towards the door. He threw himself at the wood, barrelling through into the farmhouse, knocking the door clean off its hinges without breaking a sweat. A small Nord man in simple clothes leaped up from his seat by the fire.

"What in the…" was all he managed to get out before Jonah's mace crushed his skull.

A feeling of power surged through Jonah, he felt alive again. In that instant, the moment of another's death, he felt pure joy and elation. But as the body crumpled to the ground and he withdrew his mace, it faded, leaving him hollow and emotionless once more. Another death must be sought.

A scream came from behind him. A wood-elf woman had emerged from the bedroom at the noise. Before Jonah could react, she'd sprinted out the doorway. Cursing, he ran after her. There could be no witnesses.

He was distracted, however, by a figure leaping the same fence that he had leaped only moments earlier. The wood-elf was well on her way to raising the guard, but more important matters had Jonah's attention. As the figure approached him, he recognised the black and red outfit of the Dark Brotherhood. The swishing tail and glinting scales marked the assassin as an Argonian. It was only a matter of time, thought Jonah. All the people he'd killed, one of them was bound to have family who wanted revenge. Finally, a change from pitiful farmers and incompetent bandits. Finally, a challenge. The puny assassin's moment of death would be all the sweeter for it.

The lizard already had his weapons drawn, a pair of identical swords. He leapt at Jonah, his blades approaching with devastating speed, but Jonah could move faster than his size would have one believe. He darted to the right, the tips of the assassin's blades skewering the dirt instead of flesh. The two circled each other warily, sizing each other up.

He remembered to add the wood-elf woman and the Dark Brotherhood to his mental list. A list of those of those who had wronged him, had dared to attack him, to send others to kill him, or those who had simply escaped his wrath; a list of people he was going to kill. It was a long list. He had it perfectly memorised, however. They would all face their ends at the hand of Jonah.

Growing tired of the circling, Jonah hurled himself forward, delivering a crunching blow to the lizard's side with his mace, blocking the return blows with his shield. Moving back again, he saw no doubt in the assassin's eyes. This was a professional, a true killer with no compunctions, who always came prepared.

This time the lizard moved first, his right sword delivering a strike that Jonah easily blocked on his shield, but the assassin spun, bringing his other sword around at a speed that probably would have caused decapitation if Jonah hadn't ducked at the last second, pushing his shield up into his foe's chin, knocking him back. The two moved apart again.

Jonah had endured enough by that point. Time to end this little game, he thought. Raising his mace over his head, he leapt forward, aiming for a critical strike at the lizard's head. The lizard dropped the sword in his left hand and reached up to grab the shaft of the mace, bringing the blow to a halt. With his remaining sword, the assassin delivered a devastating blow to Jonah's unprotected left arm above his shield, hewing through the flesh with ease.

Jonah roared, a vicious and primal sound, echoing over the plains. The assassin struggled to continue to hold back the mace but Jonah, the sword still embedded in his arm, raised a steel boot to kick his foe away. Regaining full control over his weapon, he swung into the side of the lizard's head, kicking him again in the chest as he fell to the ground from the force of the blow. Another strike from the mace, this time to the back of the head, ended the assassin's life.

Letting his weapon fall to the ground, he gritted his teeth and wrenched the sword from his upper arm, the pain causing him to let out another roar, this time falling to his knees. The pain was horrendous, even in his bitter experience. Surveying the wound, he wondered through the thick clouds of agony if he'd be able to save the arm. The bloody blade was still in his hand when he heard shouts. Looking up towards the stables of Whiterun, he saw torches flickering in the falling night. Guards were approaching, and lots of them, no doubt lured by that insufferable elf woman from the farm.

As they drew closer, weapons drawn, he tried to judge their numbers. But his vision was fading, he could feel himself tumbling ever closer to unconsciousness. Letting out a deep breath, he fought his way to his feet.

The first guard attempted to deliver the usual line, a line Jonah had heard many times before.

"You have committed crimes against Skyrim and her…"

The guard never got to finish the sentence. Taking him by surprise, Jonah lunged forward, the dead assassin's sword opening the guard's throat. The other guards rushed forward as a group.

"Take him alive!" one of them shouted, "The Commander wants him alive!"

Swinging the sword wildly left and right, Jonah lurched at the guards. He felt rather than saw the blade hit several targets. He didn't know how long he fought, slashing at uniforms and trying to overcome the pain. Then, a yellow shield appeared in front of him, a shield emblazoned with a horse's head. It grew closer and closer until it filled his field of vision. A sharp pain to his head, and then darkness washed over Jonah.

His last thought before he slipped away completely was of his list. Guards of every hold had featured extensively on it for some time, but it was the latest addition that stuck in his mind. The Dark Brotherhood.


	11. Interview with the Psychopath

**Whiterun Stables, Whiterun**

It was late when Vash gro-Nul finally approached Whiterun. He'd been held up on his way twice, by ice wraiths and then a large sabre cat. The wraiths had been no trouble at all, as he'd cloaked himself in flames and hurled a few fireballs at them. The sabre cat on the other hand, he'd had no wish to kill, and had instead used a Pacify spell to calm the beast long enough for him to make his escape.

Passing the stables, he exchanged greetings with a small group of Khajiit merchants, on their way to their next destination. After the Civil War, the Dragonborn had led a movement to improve the lot of non-humans in Skyrim. Using his considerable influence as Dovahkiin, Harbinger, and Thane of several holds, he had brought Skyrim several steps closer to equality. Khajiit could now enter the cities and towns of the province, the Argonians and Dunmer of Windhelm were no longer confined to the Grey Quarter and Docks respectively. Every Mer, Khajiit and Argonian in Skyrim had the Dragonborn to thank for improving their lives.

There was still innate racism among much of the Nord populace, of course. That would take many years to fade away completely, Vash reasoned. But he considered himself lucky in Winterhold. The College took students of any race, as long as they had the aptitude.

Vash glanced approvingly at the walls as he crossed the drawbridge. On his previous visit, some months prior, much of the outside wall system had lain in ruin from the Stormcloak attack, but they had been rebuilt, better than ever. Trying to put aside thoughts on what his next move should be, Vash decided to go straight to the Bannered Mare in search of a warm meal and a comfy bed.

Approaching the gate, he saw a figure was engaged in conversation with one of the guards at the entrance. A figure well-built like himself, similarly burdened with a pack and boots dusty from the road. Vash drew closer, unable to avoid eavesdropping on the conversation. Lit by torches, he was able to see the figure more clearly. It was a man, in simple working clothes, but with a dangerous-looking ebony sword at his belt. His brown hair was scruffy, and he had a short beard.

"…right in the middle of the marketplace," the guard was saying, "Nobody even saw who did it."

There was a small pause, and then the guard spoke again. "And we were all sorry to hear about your wife, Dragonborn. She seemed a fine woman."

The Dragonborn! Vash's eyebrows rose. He'd heard that he'd retired to the quiet life, but here he was in Whiterun, no doubt on some new extravagant quest. When he spoke, the voice of the man who had killed the World-Eater was low and flat.

"Word travels fast around Skyrim, doesn't it? Then you'll know what it is I intend to do." He took half a step, working his left arm around in its socket, seeming to work out a kink in the joint. Vash observed in him the posture of a man perfectly in sync with his own body, a man full of unreleased tension.

"If you plan to eliminate the Dark Brotherhood…" said the guard, "then we might have picked up something of interest to you. A madman killed a member of the Brotherhood just this evening, over at Pelagia Farm. It seems he'd broken in and killed one of the occupants when the assassin attacked. They fought, and the madman won, but at the cost of his left arm."

The Dragonborn absorbed this information without an expression crossing his face. "And where is this madman now?" he asked. "Still alive?"

"Yes," replied the guard. "Two men died in the attempt and many more were wounded, but we took him alive. He's up in Dragonsreach dungeon as we speak."

"Alright," said the Dragonborn, "I want to speak to him."

"Of course, Dragonborn," said the guard. "Commander Caius is most likely still up if you have any further questions."

Vash could no longer keep silent. This was a link to the revenge he sought, a revenge the Dragonborn seemed to share. "Excuse me," he said, edging closer, "might I join you? I also seek the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood."

The guard turned to face the hooded orc. "And who might you be?" he asked, with not unnoticed scorn.

The Dragonborn also turned to Vash, squinting to make out his face in the bad light, looking him up and down. "Those are the Arch-Mage's robes," he said. "You're the orc who took over after Savos died."

"That's me," Vash said, "Vash gro-Nul, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold."

The Dragonborn seeming to be thinking it over. "He can come," he said to the guard eventually. "It's the least I can do; the College has helped me out more than once. Besides," he added, turning to Vash, "I've heard good things about what you've been doing up there."

"By your word, Thane", said the guard, stepping back to drag the gate open enough for the two to slip through into the sleeping town of Whiterun.

* * *

Burning torches and the bright moons of Tamriel lit Vash and the Dragonborn's path through Whiterun. Heading up the nearest flight of stairs, they ascended to the Wind District. The Dragonborn broke the silence as they passed through arched hole in the stone wall.

"Why did you decide to come to Whiterun, of all places?" he asked.

"I heard there was a murder," Vash replied, "A butcher, killed in the marketplace in broad daylight."

The Dragonborn nodded slowly. "Yes, his name was Anoriath," he said.

"You knew him, Dovahkiin?" asked Vash, unsure of how to address his new companion.

"I bought meat from him many times, I suppose, but I can't say I knew him. And please, enough of the Dovahkiin business; call me Gondain." The two passed under the revered boughs of the Gildergreen, turning up towards Dragonsreach.

"What about you?" asked Vash, "What made you come to Whiterun?"

"I have a house here, where I keep most of my belongings," replied Gondain, as they started to ascend the flights of stairs to the Cloud District. "If I'm going after the Dark Brotherhood, I'll need every bit of help I can get. It's also centrally located; I can get to anywhere in Skyrim from here in less than a day."

"I couldn't help overhearing at the gate," Vash said slowly, "I'm sorry about your wife. I have some small idea of how you must feel; one of my dearest friends was also killed by the Dark Brotherhood. I believe you knew him once: Urag gro-Shub." They paused on the last landing, looking out over the quiet town.

"Urag too?" sighed Gondain. "He helped me with the search for the Elder Scroll; I could have spent years searching the ice floes in the Sea of Ghosts if it wasn't for him. I have lost too many good friends." The two resumed their climb in sombre silence, striding up the last flight of stairs and entering through the large doors into Dragonsreach.

The hall was largely empty at such a late hour, save two guards, who both raised fists to their chests at the sight of the Dragonborn. Leading Vash over the left and down a short flight of stairs, he opened the door to Dragonsreach dungeon.

* * *

"Ah, Dragonborn!" exclaimed Commander Caius, rising from the bench he'd writing at when the two entered. "So good to have you back. And who's your friend?"

"Commander, allow me to present Vash gro-Nul, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold."

The mage and the guard shook hands. Vash could see the man was tired, the job was clearly taking its toll on him both physically and mentally.

"So what can I do for you two?'' the Commander asked.

"We'd like to see the madman you arrested earlier this evening," said Gondain. "We believe he may know something about the Dark Brotherhood that could lead us to them."

"You seek the Dark Brotherhood?" asked the Commander, surprised. "Well, the best of luck to you, and rest assured that the guards and I will help any way we can. There's already been too much death because of them."

"I agree," replied Gondain tersely. "Now could you show us to him?"

"Of course, he's right down the end here." The Commander turned and walked down the low-ceilinged dungeon, Vash and Gondain following. "He killed two guards and injured half a dozen more when we brought him in," Caius went on. "Not to mention the farmer and assassin he killed. We believe it was the assassin who gave him the cut to his left arm, he was clearly delirious from the pain when we found him."

"How bad was it?" asked Vash. "Did you get a healer in?"

Caius frowned as they approached the madman's cell, he turned to the left and looked through the bars. "Yeah, we got a healer in," he said. "We woke up the damn court wizard to come have a look. He agreed with me, the arm would have to come off."

At that moment, a hulking figure lurched up in the cell, a huge hand reaching out to grab the bars of his cell door. Vash and Caius flinched back, but Gondain was unmoved.

The madman's one functioning eye was wild and wide, his long hair was matted with blood, and his left arm ended a short way past his shoulder. The bandage around it was clearly ineffective; blood had soaked through and was dripping on the floor.

"Where can I find the Dark Brotherhood?" asked Gondain.

The killer's grip tightened on the bar, his mouth curled into a snarl, revealing teeth grinding against each other in rage.

"The Dark Brotherhood…" spoke the man, his voice disjointed. "They did this to me… they will pay, yes… they're on my list… almost had them once… cut off my arm! They'll pay… know where the Black Door is… and the elf woman, her too, and that whore Moira… keeps getting longer…" he trailed off into a laugh which quickly became a dirty cough. He spat blood on Gondain's chest, but the Dragonborn paid it no mind.

The man was clearly insane, Vash reasoned. Even before losing the arm, the brutality and random nature of his murders were obvious signs of an unstable mind, and although Vash had nothing to compare the killer's current state to, but it seemed to him that the loss of his arm had sent the huge Redguard murderer over the edge, into a world where he was focused only on revenge, the 'list' he kept mentioning.

Gondain's arm reached through the bars, his hand wrapping around the killer's neck, a dangerous spark appearing in his eyes.

"What is the Black Door?" he growled, "A way to the Dark Brotherhood? Where is it!?"

But the killer gave no answer, instead planting a foot on the bars and pushing hard, wrenching away from Gondain's grip.

"You…" the huge man breathed, "You're on my list now. I have seen your face, and I will see it again before I kill you."

The man's words sent a chill through Vash's bones, but Gondain was again unmoved. "Tell me where to find the Dark Brotherhood, you hulking pile of skeever shit, or I'll tear you apart!" he bellowed.

"No…" said the killer, his focus lost again. "You'll never… couldn't get it open… that stone face… never steal my kill… so huge! And that voice… yelling in my head… no, get out, get out!" He threw his full weight against the door, forcing Gondain back. His voice grew louder, more frenzied. "Let me out!" he yelled, _"LET ME OUT!"_

Vash had a spell ready in each hand, and Caius quickly drew his sword, but Gondain stepped back, the fires passed out of his eyes. "We're not going to get anything out of this one," he said, speaking low.

He walked calmly away from the cell, back towards the way they had come in. Vash and Caius shared a worried glance, before lowering their weapons and following. Vash took one last look over his shoulder at the killer in the cell; his huge frame now slumped against the cell door, his face leaning against the bars, his eyes closed.

Gondain paused at the door to Dragonsreach hall, turning to the Commander. "You might want to increase the guard on that cell," he said, "maybe reinforce the door. There'll be death one way or another if he gets out."

"By your word, Thane," replied the Commander. "Although some of the other Jarls may attempt to claim him, he's wanted in most of the major holds for murder."

Gondain merely sighed and nodded, exiting from the dungeon. Vash shook the weary Commander's hand, and then followed him back out into the hall of Dragonsreach.

* * *

**The Bannered Mare, Whiterun**

"So, how does an orc like you get to be Arch-Mage, huh?" asked Gondain, thumping down in the seat opposite Vash. Clutching a bottle of wine in each hand, he slid one across the table to the orc in question. Vash popped the cork and took a swig, smiling appreciatively before responding.

"Well, it must have been over a year ago now, but I'm sure some news filtered out of Winterhold at the time. Damn thing certainly caused enough trouble."

Gondain sat back in his chair, his eyes scanning the interior of the inn. The only other patron at such a late hour was a Nord woman in full plate armour, hunched over on a bench near the fire, who Gondain had introduced to Vash as Uthgerd the Unbroken. A ragged smile was all she had given in response to their greeting upon entering the inn.

"I heard bits and pieces," Gondain said, "Something about Thalmor involvement? Wouldn't surprise me."

"Yes, Ancano, the Thalmor advisor," Vash went on. "I never liked him, right from the start. He was focused only gaining personal power."

"And what are you focused on gaining?" asked Gondain, their eyes meeting.

"Knowledge," answered Vash without a second thought. "Knowledge to expand our understanding of magic, knowledge that could help improve the life of every being in Tamriel. There's so much we don't know, about what magic can really do, on a grand scale I mean. The possibilities are endless."

Gondain chuckled lightly. "An admirable motive if ever there was one. You were saying about Ancano?" he asked, getting Vash back on track.

"Yes. Well. The College was already conducting an investigation in the ruins of Saarthal when I arrived, and the other students and I were sent down to help. To cut it short, down in the depths we found the Eye of Magnus, an item of immense magical power." Vash paused, running through the events again in his head. It'd been so long since he'd thought about it; indeed he'd barely had the chance given the rapid way things had unfolded. He continued the tale.

"We brought the Eye back to College for closer study, and it didn't take long for Ancano to make his move. I guess he was worried the Psijic Order might get to the Eye before him, they popped up a few times."

Gondain raised his eyebrows at mention of the Psijic monks, but stayed silent.

"Eventually," said Vash, "I found Magnus' staff. Had to delve into a Dwemer ruin, kill an undead dragon and a dragon priest to do it, but I did. By that time Ancano had acted, he'd tapped into the power of the Eye, killing Savos Aren and shielding himself from attack. With the staff, I was able to break through and channel the Eye's power to kill Ancano." He paused for another sip of wine, remembering the jagged sounds of lightning bolts being flung around the Hall of the Elements.

"It turns out that Savos had written a letter, expressing his desire for me to be Arch-Mage after him. I still don't know why, but I'm doing the best I can." Vash stared down at his drink, remembering the lost. Savos, Mirabelle, Urag. "The monks came back shortly after, taking the Eye with them. Nobody's heard from them since."

He paused, and then broke into a smile. "Haven't seen any Thalmor in Winterhold since then either."

Gondain's grin grew wide, and he raised his bottle towards Vash. "To putting a boot up the Thalmor's backside," he said.

Vash did the same, the bottles making a low ding. "And to the death of the Dark Brotherhood," he added.

"Yes," said Gondain, finishing off his bottle. "On that note, we're going to need some more help." He turned towards the woman tending the bar, an attractive Redguard.

"Saadia," he said, "there wouldn't happen to be a courier around, would there?"

The woman's eyes were tired, but she responded with a smile. Most people here seemed to like the Dragonborn a great deal, Vash thought.

"There's one sleeping upstairs," Saadia said. "Want me to wake him up?"

"If you'd be so kind, Saadia. I've got a message I need delivered to the Ragged Flagon."


	12. A Family of Thieves

_~Second-last update for the year! And I guarantee no delays in updates due to Christmas and New Year's. Thanks for reading~_

* * *

**Cistern of the Ragged Flagon, Riften**

As the sun was rising over Skyrim, three thieves sat cross-legged in a loose circle on the floor of the Guild's training room. Rune, Nord of unknown birth. Ravyn Imyan, Dunmer, and more importantly, ex-Morag Tong. The third was Dar'epha, silent of foot and extraordinary archer. Probably the best damn thief in the place, although none of the others would ever admit as much out loud. At that moment however, her attention was focused on winning every last septim from her fellow guild members.

Dar'epha cast her feline eyes at the other two players. "Well, gentlemen," she said smoothly, "let's see your cards."

Rune frowned nervously, already well out of pocket. "Two pair," he said, revealing his cards. "Trolls and mudcrabs."

Ravyn's face gave away nothing. "Straight, horker through to spriggan."

Dar'epha couldn't hold in her grin. She turned over her cards with melodramatic slowness. "Full house, thanes over dragons."

Rune threw his cards down. "I clearly still don't know how to play this damn game of yours," he said.

"I don't understand why there are creatures at all," spoke Ravyn thoughtfully. "Could the cards not simply be represented with numbers? Is a spriggan worth more than a troll, or is that giants? It is hard to remember."

"I suppose," conceded Dar'epha. "Wouldn't that make it less exciting?"

"I think I would be alright with it being less exciting if it meant I could actually _win,_" replied Ravyn.

"And besides," added Rune with a smirk, "Your drawings are terrible. I mean you can barely tell that's a troll." He indicated the card in question.

"Well, I was going to give all your septims back," said Dar'epha, "But just for that, I think I'll keep them now." She smirked and scooped the pile of gold towards her. "I will keep working on it though, you might have a point with the number thing."

Ravyn nodded approvingly, but Rune looked longingly at his lost septims. She'd almost finished sliding them into her coin purse when Vex entered the room. The Guild had been without a Guild Master since Gondain had killed Mercer and it seemed to be general consensus that they could function perfectly well without one, although every now and then an argument would break out about just who would be the best for the job. Vex and Delvin pretty much ran operations anyway, along with Brynjolf and Tonilia, as the only other senior Guild members, fulfilling roles as intermediary with the Black-Briars and fence respectively.

The three players got to their feet at the sight of her, her face stern and unforgiving as usual.

"Rune, Ravyn, I've got a job for you," she said. "Go see Niruin, he'll be going with you. There's a caravan coming in from Morrowind and we need to make sure none of its goods make it to market."

"Of course Vex, you can count on us," said Ravyn, indicating to Rune they should take their leave immediately. The two did so, leaving Vex alone with Dar'epha. The Khajiit, sensing that something was making Vex uncomfortable, stooped to gather her cards, giving the woman more time to gather her thoughts.

"There's been a letter for you, just now," said Vex eventually. "From Gondain."

Dar'epha looked up sharply. She hadn't heard from her friend Gondain since he'd left to settle up in the mountains south of Falkreath with his wife. It seemed like so long ago. Vex handed over the letter. Unfolding it, Dar'epha gazed upon its hastily scribbled contents.

_Dar'epha, _

_Angi is dead, murdered. I'm going after the Dark Brotherhood and could use your help. Meet me at Breezehome if you can, as soon as possible. I've sent a letter to Delvin and Vex too, if you could bring their reply with you when you come that would be most helpful._

_Looking forward to seeing you,_

_Gondain_

She looked up at Vex, who was handing her another folded letter.

"I imagine he wants you to take this with you," she said. "It's everything Delvin and I know about the Dark Brotherhood, names, places, our agreements, trades and so on. I hope it helps."

Dar'epha folded both letters into one of the many pockets in her Guild armour, trying to arrange the news in her mind. Angi, dead! Gondain's wife had always been nothing but exceptionally kind to Dar'epha, especially during the short period when she'd lived with them at Honeyside, before joining the Guild. If revenge was what Gondain was after, then she would be more than happy to lend a hand. "Won't telling him this void the agreement you have with Brotherhood, given that he'll use it to go after them?" she asked.

Vex's tone was serious, even more so than usual. "This Guild owes more to Gondain that it can ever repay. He killed Mercer; he could have been Guild Master if he had so wished. If the Brotherhood has chosen to go after him and those he loves, then they are no friends of ours."

Dar'epha nodded with grave understanding. Going after the Dark Brotherhood would not be easy, indeed in recent months they seemed to have grown more powerful, many murders and assassinations being reported across Skyrim. She imagined that Gondain would be calling in quite a few favours to help him on this quest for vengeance.

"You'd better get going," said Vex. "I'm sure you can use your recent winnings to pay for an express carriage trip." Something that might have almost been called a smile flickered across Vex's face at that moment, but it was gone just as quick as it had arrived.

"Alright, thanks Vex," Dar'epha said, striding out of the training room and across the cistern, making hurried goodbyes to each Guild member that she passed. Picking up her bow from where it leaned up against her bed, she then scampered up the ladder and pulled the chain, emerging into Riften's small graveyard.

Her Thieves Guild armour drew no glances as it might once have done as she made her way through the clear morning air of the city. Especially in Riften, but all across the Skyrim, the Guild was going from strength to strength, expanding operations to heights they had not dared dream of only a year before. There was even talk of establishing another base, perhaps in Solitude. Causing trouble for a Guild member (assuming you declined their bribe) was a quick and easy way to ensure the disappearance of your most valuable possessions.

Riften's resident carriage driver, Sigaar, was more than happy to head for Whiterun at top speed, especially after Dar'epha showed him the amount of gold he could stand to earn if he got her there before the sun reached its peak.

Trying to settle down as the carriage rattled and bumped along the road, she felt with a paw the three parallel scars across the bridge of her nose, a memento of her last trip with Gondain. The memory of the hagraven's talons reaching out towards her came to her again, but she dismissed it. She kind of liked her scars anyway.

And so another adventure with the Dragonborn is about to begin, she thought. She wouldn't miss it for the world.


	13. Bound Until Death

_~Last chapter for the year! Thanks for reading, see you next week in 2013~_

* * *

**Castle Dour, Solitude**

As Dar'Epha departed for Whiterun at great speed, Vialas was making her way to the wedding of Asgeir Snow-Shod and Vittoria Vici, the Emperor's cousin.

Vialas had bought some fancy clothes at Radiant Raiment, so as to blend in with the crowd at the reception. Dark Brotherhood armour tends to stand out, she had noticed. The shop owner had been so insufferably uppity and condescending, she'd considered murdering her where she stood, but reasoned that a murdered clothing merchant would most likely blow her cover. Besides, Astrid disliked mess. And a mess it certainly would have been, Vialas thought, if the imaginings in her head of what she would have liked to do to the woman were anything to go by.

But she hadn't killed her. And so she paced calmly across the courtyard of Castle Dour, towards the Temple of the Divines. The fancy clothes were almost unbearable, the sleeves were too loose, the skirts got in the way, and the low neckline drew glances from every man she passed. The skirts had one benefit, however: a hidden place to keep her knife. But if Babette's information was correct, then she wouldn't need it anyway.

Veezara had expressed interest in accompanying her on this mission, but he had not returned from his madman contract by the time she had to leave and so, she went alone. She could have done with companionship on this mission, she thought. With Festus never having returned from the contract to kill the Dragonborn's wife, they had assumed the worst, that he had failed and been killed, perhaps by the Dragonborn himself. And Cicero was still making everyone in the sanctuary uneasy with his insane rants and gibberings. The atmosphere in the home of the Brotherhood was tense. They could ill afford any failures, and as the Listener, Vialas did not intend to let them down.

Passing through the stone arch, she entered the small courtyard in front of the Temple of Divines, where the wedding reception was being held. Benches had been set up, and tables with food and drink. A bard, no doubt hired from the local college, sang twee songs on her lute. The bride and groom sat on two chairs directly opposite the door to the temple, where they had just been married. A group of well-dressed guests milled around, eating and drinking. Exactly the kind of social function Vialas detested. She would be glad to put her mark upon it.

Vittoria Vici was speaking to the crowd. "Please, enjoy the festivities," she said. "My day is your day! Eat, drink, make merry! We're all friends here." The crowd did not appear entirely convinced, but carried on making respectfully dull conversation regardless. Vialas strode over to one of the tables for the sake of appearances, in reality wanting to be out as soon as possible. If this went as planned, nobody would have any reason to suspect her, or indeed think that it was murder at all. An old gargoyle, a dilapidated castle. A tragic accident.

She glanced up at the gargoyle in question. Old stone, dark grey like the rest of the castle, a hideous face etched upon it. And it fortuitously hung right above the balcony where the bride and groom would make their speech from. Astrid had promised a bonus if Vialas killed the bride during her speech, and she intended to collect.

Vialas poured herself a goblet of wine, drinking it quickly. A robed priest caught her eye from across the courtyard and started to make his way towards her. Cursing the Divines under her breath, she poured some more wine.

"Greetings and blessing of the eight Divines be upon you," said the priest, sneaking a glance at her cleavage, "I don't believe I've seen you in Solitude before. Are you here especially for the wedding?"

Vialas did her best eliminate her Morrowind accent, adopting the tone of a Cyrodiil native. "Why, yes," she said, "My husband I came straight from the Imperial City. He's a member of the Elder Council, don't you know. Trying to curry favour with the Emperor by attending his cousin's wedding, already being here when he arrives, you know how internal politics are; such a drag." She took a delicate sip of wine, befitting a lady of her station. She was quite pleased with her little act. The others would definitely enjoy this story upon her return to the sanctuary.

The priest struggled to absorb all the rapidly-delivered information. "You… the Emperor's coming here? …to Skyrim?" The Emperor was indeed coming, was in fact already well on his way, but that was highly confidential, a fact known only to his innermost court and guards. And the Dark Brotherhood.

"Oh of course," continued Vialas, really getting into the swing of it. "He was so sorry he couldn't be here for his cousin's wedding, but he'll be here soon enough. That reminds me; he sent a little gift along with us, as an apology for being so very late. I'll have to present it myself, my husband's come down with a nasty case of Bone Break Fever, simply doesn't have the stamina to get out of bed." She cast her eyes around as if looking for something. "I must have left it in the temple, do excuse me." And with that, she drifted away, leaving behind a confused and somewhat overwhelmed priest.

* * *

Once inside the Temple of Divines, she found it empty, everyone else being outside 'enjoying the festivities.' Noticing she still had the mostly full goblet of wine in her hand, she drained it and set it down neatly on a nearby bench. No time to waste now, she thought. She ran lightly up the stairs to the right, clutching her skirts in her fists, following the directions that Gabriella had been kind enough provide. Finding the door she sought, she opened it slowly, anticipating patrolling guards, but there were none. Stepping out on to the upper stone walkway, she was able to see the reception down below and the bride and groom moving towards the stairs, heading to the balcony to make their speech.

Keeping low so as to avoid being seen by the wedding guests, she moved quickly beside the battlements to the loose gargoyle. Wishing she hadn't drunk the wine so quickly, she positioned herself behind the stone figure, peering down to be ready for her opportune moment. A moment that would live in infamy if she got it perfect.

The bride and groom appeared on the balcony below, the bride throwing her arms wide to begin her speech, gaining the crowd's full attention. She never got a single word out. Heaving her weight into the stone, Vialas dislodged the gargoyle and it toppled down, landing with a thud, crushing the bride and sending the groom reeling back. Unfortunately for Vialas, with the stone dislodged, she was clearly visible to the now horrified wedding party.

"Murder!" shouted someone. "The bride's been murdered!"

Vialas swore again, turning to sprint for the exit as the guards started to climb the stairs towards her, drawing bows and trying to make a killing shot. But as she turned, she found herself face to face with Arnbjorn, dressed only a loincloth.

"Nice outfit," he said with a grin. "Plenty of places for hidden blades."

"What in Sithis' name are you doing here?" she exclaimed, her red eyes glinting.

"Astrid ordered me out here to keep an eye on you," he replied. "Figured you could use a hand when the chaos erupted. I'll handle this, you get back to the Sanctuary."

"What are you going to do?"

"Provide a little distraction. Now go!" he yelled.

Arnbjorn's body began to tremble and spasm. Vialas, knowing instantly what he was doing, ran. At the corner she turned back to see what was happening. The guards and irate wedding guests were converging on Arnbjorn, who was now crouching over, his muscles bulging and twisting. He let out a maniacal laugh as his face started to lengthen that descended into a howl. His body swelled in size, now covered with a thick brown fur. His powerful arms lashed out and the guards realised what they were dealing with: a werewolf.

Vialas would have loved to stay and watch him cause chaos, but she had to leave. Running again, she rounded more corners and across the walkway that spanned over the border between the market and the housing districts of Solitude. The tower at the end of the walkway had a spiral stair, and she descended down it, three steps at a time. She exploded through the door at the bottom, coming out into the open air, facing the bay under the Solitude arch.

Smoothing down her dress and fixing her short black hair, she moved off at a stately walk towards the stables. Just a noblewoman out for a morning stroll, she thought, unable to keep the grin off her face. Yet another successful contract for the Dark Brotherhood. Their work would be known.


	14. Coalescence

_Coalescence: 'to come together so as to form a whole'_

* * *

**Breezehome, Whiterun**

Gondain was rummaging through one of his drawers upstairs when he heard the knock on the front door. He yelled down to Vash, who had been browsing his bookshelf when he'd left him.

"If that's Dar'epha, just let her in. I'll be down in a minute." He turned his attention back to his search, finally finding what he had been searching for, the last piece of the ensemble: a pair of ebony gauntlets. Pulling them on, he hoped that it had indeed been Dar'epha at the door and not some hapless soul looking for a favour now that news was spreading he was out of his retirement. Returned by necessity, not by desire.

Unable to completely shake off his dark thoughts, he nonetheless put on a pleasant expression and descended the stairs to discover Vash and Dar'epha making introductions.

"Dar'epha!" he exclaimed as he came down, throwing his arms wide in an exaggerated gesture. "So good of you to come."

His Khajiit friend did not seem to share his façade of good humour. "Angi was a good woman," she said. "And if you're going after the Dark Brotherhood, then I'm with you, all the way."

Gondain dropped his arms, coming up face to face with his long-time adventuring companion. "Thank you," he said, struck by the loyalty and conviction in her voice.

Vash stood silently and patiently, clutching a book in his hands, but Gondain could tell from his fingers tapping frantically along the spine that he'd found something that interested him.

"I thought you'd find a few things to interest you in there," he said. "What have you got?"

Vash raised the book in both hands. "You've got Roland Nordssen's journal, _The Ruins of Kemel-Ze_. I've been looking all over for a copy of this."

Gondain waved his hand. "Keep it." Vash started to politely protest, but he cut him off. "You and the College will get more use out of it than me."

Vash thanked him, carefully tucking the book into his pack.

Gondain kept on that train of thought, unwilling to contemplate thoughts related to Angi. "There's not much on that shelf really, but you're welcome to whatever you think might be of interest to the College. My real library was in Markath, but they refuse to allow me back in. I imagine it's still there though, nobody else had a key and those doors were quite sturdy."

The look on Dar'epha's face revealed that this was news to her. "You have a house in Markath? As well as here and Riften and Solitude?" she asked.

Gondain nodded. "I bought it early on, shortly after becoming Thane. Before all that stuff with the Forsworn happened. Not to mention the cannibals. Although they'd never admit now that I'm a Thane of the Reach, I imagine they'll have struck my name from the records."

He could see Vash was bursting with questions. Dar'epha shot him a look and he could that she knew that he was stalling, trying to talk and think about anything other than the matter at hand. He silently thanked her for indulging him.

"Exactly how many holds are you Thane of?" asked Vash. "The stories would have us believe the answer was all of them."

Gondain smiled. "Well that's certainly not true. Technically," he explained, "I'm Thane of four holds. Whiterun, Haafingar, Eastmarch, and Winterhold. In the Rift I essentially have all the benefits of the title without having the actual title itself."

"I knew about Winterhold," said Vash. "Jarl Kraldar has spoken of how you unearthed the Helm of Winterhold for him."

"Ah, that was a long time ago. A reasonably easy trip, as it turned out." Gondain turned to Dar'epha. "So how are things with the Guild?" he asked.

The Khajiit thief smiled mischievously. "Business is booming," she replied. "We've got high-up contacts in every town and city in Skyrim. Gold and jobs are rolling in. We're even thinking of expanding, setting up another base."

Gondain raised his eyebrows, considering the Guild's options for such an endeavour. He arrived at one conclusion. "Solitude?" he asked. His friend nodded. "Well then," he went on, "you can use my manor, I'm never there, it's got multiple exits, plenty of space. Everything a growing Guild needs." He couldn't stop himself from grinning. He'd certainly enjoyed his time being active in the Guild, even if he'd relied heavily upon certain enchanted items to pull off the tougher jobs.

"You sure?" responded Dar'epha. "Don't you have a housecarl there?"

"Oh, Jordis. I suppose she's still technically in my service." His thoughts went pensive. "You know, I think she's my only surviving housecarl. Maybe I'll let her retire. Certainly I don't need her anymore. She's probably moved on to other things anyway. Don't worry about it, the house is at the Guild's disposal."

Dar'epha broke out into a wide smile. "Damn", she said, "Delvin's gonna love having his own manor house, just wait until I tell him."

There was a pause, during which Vash seemed to note Gondain's armour for the first time.

"What is that?" the mage asked. "It's very powerfully enchanted." He stretched his hand out towards Gondain's chest, drawing it back at the last inch. Gondain looked down at his outfit. His ebony gauntlets and boots were well-crafted, set with enchantments to boost his strength and skill in combat. But it was the main piece of armour that was attracting the Arch-Mage's attention. It too was ebony, but darker even than normal, it seemed to absorb light from all around and never reflect it out again.

Gondain thought before composing his answer, not knowing his new comrade's stance on the issue. "How do you feel about the Daedra, Vash?" he asked.

Vash started, looking Gondain right in the eye. His response was almost stammered, his tone uncertain. "They're dangerous… incredibly so. There are so many accounts of deals with them gone wrong, souls being lost to Oblivion. But…" he paused. "They have such knowledge, powers that we cannot even dream of. If I had assurances that I would survive unharmed… I think I would happily strike a deal with many of them, if there was something valuable to the College at stake."

"Well, that's a relief," said Gondain. "You can't be too careful, there's a lot of misunderstanding floating around about the Daedra. Dangerous they most certainly are, but they will reward you handsomely if you help them. To answer your question, this armour was a reward from Boethiah, although I won't go into what I did to get it."

A flash of memory came to Gondain. Stenvar, a mercenary he'd hired in Windhelm, his eyes wide, not understanding the choice he'd just unwittingly made. The voice of Boethiah speaking through his, the massacre that followed. Those had been dark days, full of murder and deception. The cultists of Boethiah had needed to die; they were scum, that was certain. But Stenvar… he had not deserved such a death. His face still came to Gondain at night, among many others.

Vash's next question was hesitant. "Have you… done many deals with the Daedra?" he asked.

"All of them except Namira," replied the Dragonborn. "I regret most of them, though." His memories weighed heavily upon him, and he changed the subject.

"Did Vex and Delvin give you their reply to my letter?" he inquired of Dar'epha.

"Oh, yeah." She reached into one of her many pockets and retrieved the folded paper, handing it over. "Did you have a plan other than this? I mean, have you two found any clues or anything?"

Vash answered that one. "We questioned, or at least tried to question, an insane murderer who managed to kill one of the Dark Brotherhood, but we couldn't get anything useful information from him. He was delirious; he'd lost a limb and a whole lot of blood." Vash started to roll a small ball of conjured light across his knuckles, something he did to keep his casting in practice. "I was surprised he was still alive, given his wound and mental state."

Gondain examined the note, hoping for something that would lead him straight to the Dark Brotherhood's hideout.

_Gondain, we were sorry to hear about your wife. Know that you have the Guild's full support in all matters. All previous deals with the Dark Brotherhood are null and void as of writing this._

_To the matter of your request. Despite our dealings, we know comparatively little about the Brotherhood. The only member we know by name is Astrid, the leader. From various encounters and meetings we can estimate that there are around half-a-dozen members, perhaps more._

_We have had no luck locating their base either. Once, after a meeting, Brynjolf attempted to follow the member, but he gave him the slip some ways south of Lake Ilinalta. Further investigations revealed that their base is indeed most likely located quite close to the city of Falkreath._

_More recently, we had a visit you might be interested in. A Dark Brotherhood member, a thin Dunmer girl, came to the Flagon seeking a sale for an item of considerable value. The item was one of a kind, an amulet only given to members of the Emperor's Elder Council. I gave a letter of credit in return, as per our standard agreement. We don't know how they came to possess such a prized and unique find, the members of the Elder Council are not known for simply giving out their amulets. We will make further enquiries, and hold the amulet in the vault for safekeeping._

_We only hope some of this information may be useful to you. If there is anything else you require, the Guild is at your disposal._

_Regards, Delvin and Vex._

Gondain crumpled the letter in his fists, tossing it into the unlit fire-pit.

"Well?" asked Vash. "Anything useful to us?"

Gondain paused in answering, running over the facts at his disposal. "Do you think you can get anything out of that killer in the dungeon?" he asked.

"I doubt it," replied Vash, "His mind is broken, probably for good."

"That's what I thought. He mentioned something about a 'Black Door,' do you remember?" Vash nodded, and Gondain continued. "He seemed to know where the Brotherhood's base is hidden, despite not being able to get in. The Guild was able to narrow down the location, somewhere close to Falkreath. I think that's where we should go, scout the surrounding area, maybe…"

At that moment he was interrupted by a knock on the door. Passing between Vash and Dar'epha, he moved and opened it to reveal Commander Caius.

The Commander's words were rushed. "There's been a murder, I thought you'd want to hear straight away. In Solitude, the Emperor's cousin was murdered at her own wedding, this very morning. The news has just come in. The Dark Brotherhood were seen."

"Do we have any information on what they looked like?" asked Gondain, as Dar'epha and Vash came up on either side of him to hear what the Commander was saying.

"The reports are garbled, but it seems to have been a Dunmer woman who actually committed the murder. There are some more unbelievable reports that a werewolf then held off the guards so she could escape." The Commander seemed to doubt this last part, and with good reason. Werewolves were so rarely seen in Skyrim to as be considered almost myths. The Dragonborn however, knew better.

"Thank you for coming so soon, Commander," said Gondain. "I will do all I can to stop the Dark Brotherhood before any more of these atrocities occur."

"I know you will, Dragonborn." The Commander hesitated. "There's one more piece of news. The Emperor is coming. Here, to Skyrim. He'll be here soon, in the next few days perhaps, although nobody knows exactly when."

Gondain nodded, turning this new information over his head. He shook the Commander's hand in farewell, closing the door and turning back to his allies.

"The Emperor, coming to Skyrim!" exclaimed Dar'epha, whistling appreciatively. She stopped suddenly. "Wait, if he's going to be here that soon, then he was already well on his way when his cousin was murdered."

"Indeed," said Vash, "But you can bet he'll undertake investigations. I imagine the Penitus Oculatus are already looking into it, along with making sure he'll be safe when he does get here."

"Vash," said Gondain, "did you get a good look at the assassin who killed Urag?"

"Yes, a thin woman of Dunmer origin, very quick on her feet. Why? You think it's the same one who killed the Emperor's cousin?"

"Has to be," continued Gondain, "She also matches the description of a Brotherhood member who came to the Guild recently, looking to sell an amulet of the Emperor's Elder Council."

"The Elder Council? They don't just hand out those amulets to people in the street," said Vash.

"Exactly. The Emperor's visit and his cousin being murdered can't be a coincidence. We need to get to Solitude, examine the murder scene if we can, talk to people, try and find out when exactly the Emperor is getting here. Something big is happening."

Dar'epha couldn't hide a small smile. This was the Dragonborn in his element.

"We should leave immediately," she said.

"In a moment," he said. He eyed the two of them up and down. "Dar'epha, the Guild may be back in power, but that uniform is still conspicuous. There's a set of glass armour upstairs that might fit you. Plus enough arrows to see you through until the next age. Vash, I'm sure your robes are laced with enchantments, but there's a drawer full of staves at the top of the stairs, you might find something that suits you." The Dragonborn strode to the table, retrieving the three items that lay on it. The first, his favourite shield, of dwemer make with powerful magic-resisting enchantments built into it. The second was a vicious daedric sword that pulsed with barely suppressed energy, which he strapped to his waist. The third was an ebony helmet to complete his set of armour, which he tucked under his arm.

"While you two are getting kitted out, I need to drop by Jorrvaskr." He threw the house's key to Dar'epha. "Lock up when you're done, I'll meet you at the stables."

Feeling like his old self, he walked quickly out the door, leaving one old friend and one new friend in his house. On the path up to the hall of the Companions, he was greeted with many smiles and nods from the citizens of Whiterun. Opening the door to Jorrvaskr, he was met by Aela the Huntress, who was sitting lazily in a chair with her feet stretched up on the table.

"Well, well," she said, "if it isn't the Harbinger."


	15. The Great Escape

**Dragonsreach Dungeon, Whiterun**

In his cell, Jonah sat in silence, leaning against the wall opposite the reinforced door. Two guards had been stationed outside his cell since those people had come to visit, the Breton and the orc. The Breton was most certainly on his list, but he had a greater priority.

The Dark Brotherhood had cost him his arm, and they would pay. All of them would pay. Maybe he'd cut off all their arms, that would be appropriate, he thought. Maybe he'd burn down their home. Thinking of fire brought fragments of memories to the forefront of his mind. The walls burning, the floor burning, fire getting ever closer. Crashing through the walls, trying to escape, never quite- _no!_ He slammed his fist against the stone wall of his prison. He jerked his head back, creating a familiar spasm of pain. It dulled the memories, quieted his thoughts, but it was not enough. He'd need to kill again soon.

Hearing the noise, one of the guards approached his door.

"Keep it down in there!" yelled the guard through his helmet.

Jonah chuckled lightly, sizing up the guard. Standard issue armour, easy to cut through. Pathetic wooden shield and… now that was different. This guard had a finely-crafted hand axe, looking to be of Dwemer make, hanging at his belt. Jonah observed the killing implement with appreciation.

"Nice axe," he grunted, stumbling to his feet and walking to the door. "How'd you afford it on a guard's pay?"

The guard drew said axe, dragging the blade across the bars, making a horrendous clanging sound. "It was my father's," said the guard, "and if you try anything I'll bury it in your fucking skull."

Jonah couldn't suppress a cackle at this remark, as he made his way right up to the bars. The axe could fit through the bars easily, he realised. Not well enough to deliver any sort of effective strike, but well enough for what he had in mind.

Reaching his one remaining arm through the bars, he swiftly grabbed the axe and wrenched it out of the guard's hand, bringing it back nimbly through the bars. He backed away from the door as the guard, now accompanied by his fellow, began to argue.

"Open this door right now!" bellowed the now axe-less guard.

"Are you insane?" replied the second. "The Commander will skin us alive! Not to mention what that piece of shit will do to you if you get in range of that axe."

The first guard raged, grabbing the bars of the cell door with both hands and slamming his weight against it. "Damn him!" he yelled.

Jonah saw his moment. Taking a long stride across the cell, he swung the axe straight into the fingers of its former owner. The guard screamed and jumped back, missing several pieces of his hand. Jonah felt himself surge with energy at the sight of another's blood, but it was not enough. Someone was going to have to die.

He kicked brutally at the door, feeling it start to give. The second guard ran, yelling for help, yelling that the prisoner was trying to escape. But if things went right for Jonah, it would make no difference at all.

A final kick sent the cell door cannoning out of its holdings and directly into the first guard, the metal whacking him to the floor. Dead or unconscious, Jonah couldn't tell. But he intended to make sure. Stepping out of the cell, he used his foot to slide the door off the guard, bringing the axe down to sever his head.

He was free. And this time no amount of incompetent guards was going to stop him. He had a place to go and an item at the top of his list to cross off: the Dark Brotherhood.

He saw two guards moving to block off his exit into Dragonsreach and he paused, trying to find his new balance now that he was lacking an arm. His ragged robes would provide no protection against the guards' blades either. Rather than waiting further, he hurled himself forward, barrelling into the unprepared guards, knocking one over and slashing with his axe at the other. Two more sharp slashes finished them off.

Three dead. He was starting to feel alive again.

* * *

The door to the hall of Dragonsreach opened with a thud, the flames of the fire and the torches burning low, throwing the upper reaches of the high ceiling of the hall into complete darkness. Jonah paused at end of the long table, his eye searching the corners of the room, finding nothing. The guards that would normally be at their posts here must have been the ones he had killed down in the dungeon.

Looking down at the tattered robes he wore, he realised he would not get far in such attire. Descending back into the dungeon, he entered the guard's room, finding it also empty. Searching around, he found the chest containing his confiscated arms and armour. He felt no personal connection to any of his possessions, but had enough sanity left to know he wouldn't last long without armour.

He quickly dressed in his mismatched stolen armour, keeping his new axe drawn and putting his old mace into his belt. The shield he left, there was no way to use it now, he thought bitterly. That thought brought him back to the task at hand. His list returned to the forefront of his mind; he had to go.

Returning to the hall, he approached the large double doors that would lead him out to the night-shrouded city of Whiterun. He moved carefully and slowly. As much as he'd have liked to massacre every guard and citizen in the city, there was no time, and he might be overwhelmed before he could get to his true goal: the Dark Brotherhood's sanctuary.

He'd have to move fast, the guards outside would no doubt recognise him. Slowly and painfully he manipulated his remaining hand over the handle while still holding the axe. Pressing his right shoulder to the door, he heaved it open quickly, sprinting for the stairs as soon as the gap was big enough for him to fit through.

"Hey!" shouted one of the guards at the door, "By order of the Jarl, stop right there!"

Jonah ignored the calls, taking a great leap and curling into a loose ball, plummeting into the moat at the base of Dragonsreach. He struggled to climb out with only one arm, but managed, scrambling further away as more guards joined the chase, emerging from their patrols around the slumbering town.

Passing the Gildergreen, that symbol of life and nature that he'd always hated, he went down the next set of stairs into the market square, empty at such a late hour. A drunk reared up to his right and he swung his axe, sending the man reeling and shrieking. Jonah ran on.

There was a guard at the main doors, of course. Jonah realised he should have expected that. Not slowing he stride as the guard approached with sword drawn, Jonah came in low, the torn remnants of his left shoulder bashing into the guard's shield, causing his to roar with the pain. Knocking the guard back with a foot, he delivered two short strikes to the guard's left shoulder and neck, cutting the fight short.

Pushing open the main door, Jonah exited Whiterun, never to return.

* * *

There were two more guards on their posting outside, but Jonah paid them no heed, sprinting straight ahead and jumping from the wall, landing with a crumpled smash on the path below. His legs ached, there was a throbbing pain behind his bad eye, and his wound was leaking blood and agony, but he kept going, breaking into a jog and hurdling the next, lower, wall and heading out into the plains of Whiterun.

In the distance he could make out the outline of the Western Watchtower, which had been finally undergoing repairs last time he'd been past, a few days before. That was where he'd go, the workmen wouldn't be back until morning and he could rest up before heading south; to eliminate the Dark Brotherhood from his list.


	16. Enough For Some

**Proudspire Manor, Solitude**

Arriving in Solitude in the evening, the three adventurers had found little to help them in their quest for vengeance. Gondain used his various titles as leverage to be able to examine the scene of the murder, but there was not much to examine. Vittoria's body, crushed by the gargoyle toppled from above, provided no clues. They'd spent the evening running all over the city, separately and together, talking to contacts and witnesses, guards and guests who'd seen the murder and ensuing mayhem.

There were some common threads. The slim Dunmer woman who had pushed the gargoyle loose and then escaped had been seen mingling in the reception beforehand, although it seemed she'd only spoken to one person; a priest, who'd been unable to offer anything useful. The stories the assassin had told him were most likely impromptu lies anyway, the three had reasoned. The werewolf stories were more worrying, however. There were too many witnesses to dismiss it as exaggeration.

The three had gathered at Gondain's manor house, letting themselves in to discover that Jordis, the Dragonborn's housecarl, was nowhere to be found. Hunched around a table, each with their beverage of choice, they attempted to find some sort of direction as the night fell.

Vash had been pleased to find his preferred drink stocked in the cellar, hard cider imported at great cost from Cyrodiil. Gondain twirled a bottle of wine between his hands, he seemed to Vash to have no preference for vintage. Finally, Dar'epha drank heavily from a tankard of Black-Briar Reserve. She'd taken Gondain's advice before leaving Whiterun, and was garbed in a set of fine glass armour, minus the helmet.

"I can't tell you how I came by this information," Gondain was saying, "But I have reliable sources who have told me that there is indeed a rogue werewolf operating as part of the Dark Brotherhood."

"Shit," exclaimed Dar'epha, "he's going to be a pain to kill."

Vash said nothing, examining Gondain's face instead. He was clearly holding something back, perhaps to protect others, perhaps himself. Either way, Vash wasn't going to ask, no matter how curious he was.

"I've fought them before," the Dragonborn said, "They're not too tough. Fast, though."

"But if all those guards couldn't contain him," replied Dar'epha.

Gondain snorted. "I'm sure I don't need to tell you, either of you, how incompetent the guards are in Skyrim."

Vash nodded, he understood. One of his main priorities working with Winterhold's Jarl had been to improve the guards; they'd been almost completely useless. It was a slow process, but Sergius Turrianus, the College's master enchanter, had been more than happy to help. Every Winterhold guard now carried highly enchanted weapons and armour, primed to defend against magic in particular, in case another incident occurred like the Orb of Magnus.

"I think the Elder Council connection is something we should look at," said Vash, turning over the evidence in his mind. "First, the amulet presented to the Thieves Guild. Then, that priest said the assassin told him she was the wife of an Elder Council member, here for the wedding. You asked the Jarl if a Council member is in Solitude, and as far as she knows there aren't any in all of Skyrim currently."

"What are you getting at?" asked Gondain.

"Well," Vash went on, "Why would the assassin tell such a lie? It's not a sensible one; we discovered the truth very easily. Why not claim to be a lower noblewoman, or a wealthy merchant? Both much harder to disprove. I think a member of the Elder Council could be involved, how else would they have attained the amulet? The Dark Brotherhood may be dealing with this Councillor, that's why the assassin wove them into her lie; they were simply the first thing to pop into her head."

Gondain leaned his elbows on table, frowning deeply. "That may be so," he said, "But we've got no proof, and no leads to follow."

Dar'epha took a deep gulp of mead, then added: "Surely if a member of this Elder Council was operating with the Dark Brotherhood, he wouldn't travel under his real name? He wouldn't want to sully his reputation."

"That's a good point," agreed Vash.

Gondain nodded. "We could get the word out among the Guild's contacts," he said, "See if there's currently any mysterious wealthy foreigner staying in Skyrim."

Dar'epha rose, draining her tankard. "I'm on it," she said. "Gulum-Ei is our main guy here, I'll get him to pass the word along." She moved away from the table and exited the manor out into the night.

The remaining two sat in silence for a moment, contemplating the new information.

Finally, the Dragonborn spoke. "That was some good thinking, Vash," he said. "Do you think the Emperor's involved at all?"

Vash pondered. "I doubt he'd sanction the murder of his own cousin, especially in such a public manner. If he is involved, it's probably as a victim; although I think even the Dark Brotherhood would have trouble assassinating the Emperor."

"Yes, the Penitus Oculatus are preparing for his arrival as we speak. I spoke to some old friends in the Legion, I still retain my old rank." Gondain always seemed nonchalant about his many titles, Vash had noticed, as another piece of the Dragonborn's history fell into place for him.

It was at that moment that Dar'epha burst back into the manor, running to the table.

"There's been another murder!" she exclaimed. "Just moments ago, in the courtyard of Castle Dour."

Gondain and Vash rose sharply from their seats.

"Let's go," said Gondain. "Maybe we'll find something useful this time."

* * *

The pyre that always burned in the centre of the courtyard illuminated the murder scene. The young man's body lay sprawled on the stones, blood seeping from his neck. Six people were gathered around, three guards, a thick-bearded man in guard armour who seemed to be in charge, and two men of the Penitus Oculatus. A short glance at the dead man's uniform revealed that he too was an agent of the Emperor's security force.

All six turned as the three companions approached. The bearded man recognised Gondain straight away.

"Dragonborn!" he hailed him, "What are you doing here?"

"Captain Aldis," Gondain responded. "I'm hunting the Dark Brotherhood, and would be most grateful if my friends and I could examine the body."

"Of course," replied Aldis. "Although the Penitus Oculatus believe the matter has been resolved."

Gondain crouched on the corpse's left side, Vash mirroring him on the other. Dar'epha remained standing, her eyes moving fast around the area, analysing escape routes. They could only have missed the assassin by mere minutes. Vash gently tipped the dead man's head back, revealing the cut across his neck that had ended his life so suddenly.

"Who was he?" Gondain asked the Captain.

"His name was Gaius Maro," replied Aldis, "He was here doing inspections in preparation for the Emperor's visit."

"He was also Commander Maro's son," cut in one of the Penitus Oculatus agents, "The leader of our order here in Skyrim. We found this letter on the body." The agent waved the folded piece of paper he'd been holding. "He was involved in a Stormcloak plot to kill the Emperor. The Dark Brotherhood have done us a service, we can know take appropriate precautions. The Emperor will be safe."

Gondain looked about to speak, but Dar'epha beat him to it. The claws of her right paw tapped angrily on the agent's chest.

"Have you been living under a rock?" she asked. "The Stormcloaks are gone, thanks to the man crouching right there." Gondain rose in response to this, while Vash turned back to the body, running his finger finely over the wound, examining the nature of the killing stroke.

The agent batted Dar'epha's paw away, and assumed a condescending tone. "Our intelligence shows there are substantial remnants of them across Skyrim. They no doubt orchestrated this assassination in order to revitalise their rebellion and cause chaos to their advantage."

"That's it?" Gondain said in disbelief. "You're going to close the investigation?"

"Yes," replied the agent, "We're done here. Good night, sirs and madam." He bowed shortly and left the courtyard, accompanied by his fellow.

Vash broke the ensuing silence. "This cut…" he said hesitantly, "It's the same as the one on Urag. Most likely made by the same person."

"The Dunmer woman?" asked Dar'epha. "The one who killed the Emperor's cousin as well?"

"It would seem so," replied Vash. He glanced up at Gondain, who was scratching his beard and frowning.

"I don't buy it," the Dragonborn said eventually. "The Commander's son, a Stormcloak plot? It reeks of something, I don't know what. But the Dark Brotherhood is in this up to their eyeballs. I need to speak to this Commander Maro." He turned abruptly to Captain Aldis. "When does the Emperor arrive?" he asked.

"Tomorrow, between dawn and dusk. We weren't given a more specific time." The Captain was uncertain. "I probably shouldn't have told you that," he added.

"I'll head to down to Dragon's Bridge and speak to Maro tomorrow morning then," Gondain decided, "It's too late to start out now. Besides, we've all had a bit too much to drink anyway." He smiled at his comrades. Vash found himself smiling too, despite the grimness of the situation.

Gondain turned to Aldis and shook his hand. "Thanks for your help, Captain," he said.

"Not a problem," replied the Captain. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Gondain nodded, turning away, the other two falling into step with him.

"Think we've got time for a round at the Winking Skeever before the bar closes?" he asked.


	17. A Clown and a Cook

_~I think at this point I should thank the unofficial elder scrolls pages, without whom these chapters would be even more of a shambles of misunderstood lore. Also, I'm currently undertaking an edit of previous chapters, nothing major, just grammar and so on that I missed the first time round. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

**Dawnstar Sanctuary, The Pale**

And things had been going so well for her too, ruminated Vialas. The murder of Gaius Maro had been swift and easy, she'd earned her bonus too. The Emperor was set to arrive soon, she knew the location of the Gourmet, everything was falling into place. But upon returning to the sanctuary in the early hours of the morning, she discovered that chaos had erupted in her absence. Astrid had related the story.

Cicero had completely snapped, slashing around wildly with his knife, attempting to kill Astrid, babbling about her being a pretender, how the Night Mother was the true leader of the Dark Brotherhood. Gabriella had stepped in between them, and had taken a deep wound to her side. She'd live, but Cicero would pay with his life; the remaining Brotherhood members were in agreement upon that.

"You know the old saying," Nazir had said, "When life gives you lemons, go murder a clown."

Arnbjorn had gone after Cicero, and an examination of his journal revealed that he had headed to the old sanctuary near Dawnstar. Taking Astrid's horse, Shadowmere, Vialas had gone after them at top speed, finding a wounded Arnbjorn outside the sanctuary by noon.

The final volume of Cicero's journal also revealed the password to open the Black Door at Dawnstar.

The Door had spoken: "What is life's greatest illusion?"

And she had answered: "Innocence, my brother."

Delving into the depths of the ancient lair, she had avoided the jester's traps and ignored his echoed ramblings.

He would die, that was certain. Violently. Nobody harmed the Dark Brotherhood and got away with it, she thought. Indeed, Nazir was already in the process of discovering who had killed Veezara, after discovering the Shadowscale's body in a shallow grave outside Whiterun. The Dragonborn too would pay, for his brutal murder of Festus Krex.

Abandoning all attempts at subtlety, Vialas savagely kicked open the final door, bringing the traitorous clown into view, lying on his side in a pool of his own blood, giggling still. Unable to stand, he babbled, blood seeping out of his mouth alongside his words. Vialas approached slowly, her dagger drawn.

"You caught me!" he exclaimed. "I surrender!" He descended into another fit of giggling.

Vialas found that her voice was flat, although this killing was different from what she was used to. This was no contract, this was personal. "There's only one cure for your madness, Cicero," she said, lowering her centre of gravity and preparing for a killing strike. "Me."

Cicero cackled. "Oh, I like that! Very good, very good! Creative, yes. But killing me would be a mistake, oh yes. You would displease our Mother, hmm?" His voice rose in pitch, becoming yet more fevered. "For she's your Mother too, isn't she, Listener? So walk away! Let poor Cicero live! Tell the pretender Astrid that you did the job, stabbed, strangled, drowned poor Cicero! One little itty bitty lie!" He looked up a Vialas with an imploring expression. She didn't even need to think about it.

"Do what you will, Cicero has no fight left," he went on. "In the end, Sithis will judge us both." He lapsed into silence.

Vialas lunged forward with her knife, attempting to surprise him and end the matter quickly, but Cicero, seemingly recovered from his wound, rolling quickly to the side, jumping to his feet and laughing.

"Behold!" he exclaimed. "The final trick of the Fool of Hearts! You think me near death? Think again!" He came at Vialas with his dagger, swinging and jerking manically. "Stab you, stab you, stab you!" he yelled.

Vialas preferred to avoid the uncertainty of direct confrontation if she could, but if it came down to it, she could certainly handle herself. Moving just as fast as her opponent, she swayed backwards, avoiding his cuts, then darting in for a quick slash to his left arm before leaping away to her right.

Cicero's only reaction to his new wound was to laugh even more. "Go on!" he exclaimed. "Hit me again!"

Vialas obliged. Moving faster than even the veteran assassin could, she pushed herself into a leap towards him, grabbing his right wrist with her left hand to prevent his attack, and in the same movement she swung her blade swiftly across his exposed neck. Letting go of his wrist, she kicked him away from her. He staggered, then fell backwards, his head thunking on the stone.

"Mother…" he whispered, "I'm coming."

So ended Cicero. Vialas turned and walked calmly back towards the exit. Maybe without him, she thought, there will be peace in the Dark Brotherhood again. Of its own strange kind, perhaps.

Just inside the Black Door she found Arnbjorn, who had propped himself up against the wall, holding his hands against his side. His wound was obviously still paining him, but blood was no longer seeping through his fingers, and he perked up at the sight of Vialas.

"Did you kill him?" he asked.

Vialas nodded. "Cicero has been consigned to the Void. May our fortunes turn for the better now he's gone," she said.

Arnbjorn grunted. "Don't be so sure," he said. "Haven't you got a chef to kill?"

"Yes, I should be going, if I'm going to get everything done by tonight. You take Shadowmere and get back to the Sanctuary, I can manage fast enough on foot." Vialas moved for the door.

"Hey Vialas," she heard from behind her. She turned to see Arnbjorn stumbling to his feet. He extended his hand and they shook. "You did good today," he said. "Good luck with the Emperor. You'll need it."

Vialas even managed half a smile at that. Farewelling Arnbjorn, she exited. Now that that little bit of personal business had been dealt with, she could move on to the next step towards assassinating the Emperor; the Gourmet.

* * *

**Nightgate Inn, The Pale**

A cook in Markath had earlier revealed the name and location of the famed chef. He was an orc, by the name of Balagog gro-Nolob, currently in hiding in the Nightgate Inn, waiting to be summoned to cook for the Emperor. However, Vialas intended to find him first.

She espied him from a distance, fishing in the lake behind the inn, sitting on the end of the dock, enjoying what little sun seeped through the thick clouds. Padding silently through the snow, Vialas approached. She paused, finding a fist-sized rock nearby that suited her purposes, hefting it in her right hand. Her steps would not be audible upon the wooden dock, but she paused, calling out.

"Balagog gro-Nolob?" she asked.

The orc turned, standing up and facing her at the other end of the dock.

"Who's asking?" he said harshly.

A vicious grin spread across Vialas' face as she slowly advanced towards her victim.

"Time for you to die, Gourmet," she said.

The orc's eyes went wide. "No! How did-", his words were cut short as the rock clenched in her fist crushed his skull. Vialas looked around. She had to work quickly, there was always the possibility somebody else would come out of the inn at any moment. Moving with precision, she stripped the orc of his fancy clothes, slipping them on over her Dark Brotherhood armour. They were a tad too large (the Gourmet was slim, despite his profession) but would not attract undue attention with the extra layer underneath.

Feeling in the pockets, she found the Writ she had been looking for, that proclaimed its holder as the Gourmet and would grant her access to the kitchens in Solitude. Removing the jarrin root given to her by Astrid from an inner pocket of her armour, she placed it in a side pocket of her new clothes for easy access.

Momentarily leaving the orc's body where it lay, she stalked silently around the inn, finding what she was looking for: a large fishing net. Taking it with her back to the dock, she dislodged a large rock that came from slightly further up the hill, which came up to her waist. Rolling it down and along the dock, she folded it and the orc's body over and into the net (crushing his legs in the process). She tightly knotted the net, overlapping it so as to ensure the body could not escape. Finally satisfied with her handiwork, she rolled the entire mess over the end of the dock and into the lake. It disappeared almost instantly from view, vanishing beyond the surface into the black water.

Turning away, she set course for the final stage of the plan.

* * *

**The Emperor's Tower, Solitude**

"By Azura, the Gourmet!" the Commander exclaimed.

Vialas couldn't stop a grin spreading across her face. She was enjoying herself immensely. The chef's hat and apron she'd stolen from a local merchant completed the image. The fact that the father of the man's son she'd killed was letting her in was just the icing on the cake.

"I'm sorry, I didn't realise," Commander Maro went on, "We had no idea who to expect. But please, don't let me keep you. Gianna, the castle chef, has been eagerly awaiting your arrival."

Nodding respectfully, Vialas swept through the doors, into the tower. 'Born for the task,' Astrid had said, and she couldn't help but agree with her. Striding down to the kitchens, she adjusted her hat, assuming the attitude of someone who knew exactly what they were doing. The chef, Gianna, was already stirring a large pot when she entered the room.

"Not more deliveries!" exclaimed the dark-skinned woman. "Put whatever you have over there and get out, quickly."

Vialas smiled, putting a deep and melodramatic note in her voice. "No deliveries, for I am… the Gourmet!" She resisted the urge to cackle with glee. This was too good.

"Oh, finally!" said Gianna, "When I heard the Gourmet was being brought in to cook for the Emperor, I could hardly believe it." The woman hesitated, then continued. "I… well, I just can't believe the Gourmet is a Dark Elf. How difficult it must have been for you there in Morrowind, the food there is…" she trailed off.

Vialas dispelled the comments with a wave of her hand. "Enough!" she proclaimed. "The Gourmet is here to cook, not to talk! Let us begin."

"Oh, of course," said Gianna. "The Emperor has requested your signature dish, the _Potage le Magnifique_. I've taken the liberty of getting it started… but the cookbook, your cookbook, only says so much. I would be honoured if we could make it… the Gourmet's special way. The base broth is already boiled, what should I add next?"

Vialas stroked her chin, as if thinking deeply. In reality, she was merely trying to think of the most ridiculous ingredients she could get away with putting in the dish. Finally, she spoke, Gianna having been waiting patiently in silence.

"A sweetroll is required," she said.

"Ooh, how decadent," replied Gianna, dutifully adding it. "What next?"

"The next ingredient is… vampire dust!" exclaimed Vialas, getting into the swing of it.

"Seriously? Hmm, I can imagine how that would add a more… earthly texture. And strangely enough, we do have some on hand. In it goes." She continued stirring, looking up expectantly, clearly enraptured at the Gourmet's insight.

"We must now add… a giant's toe!" With this sentence it was especially hard for Vialas to not burst out laughing, but she somehow retained her composure, acting as if this was merely commonplace.

"A giant's toe?" asked Gianna, incredulous. "Are you sure about that?"

Vialas raised her voice an octave. "I said a giant's toe! Do not presume to question the Gourmet!"

"Of course, I'm sorry… there it goes, one giant's toe? Anything else?" Gianna seemed awed by her outburst. Vialas smiled, displaying her teeth.

"Just one more special ingredient." She removed the jarrin root from her pocket, dangling it over the pot.

"What is that? Some sort of herb?" asked Gianna, stooping to examine it. "Are you sure, any other ingredient might dilute the…" Vialas cut her off with a conversational tone.

"Now, now, Gianna, who's the Gourmet here?" She smiled another winning smile, crushing the root in her hand and scattering it in the pot.

"Heh, I'm sorry, it is your recipe, after all." Gianna smiled back, her cheeks reddening. "I think it's done, come on. I'll carry the pot, I'm sure the Emperor and his guests are just dying to meet you."

Ascending the stairs behind Gianna, Vialas let the relief of success sweep over her. Dinner was served.


	18. Death Incarnate

**Proudspire Manor, Solitude**

Dar'epha woke with a start as the door to her room banged open loudly. She rose sharply and regretted the movement immediately. Squinting, she saw it was Vash responsible for the noise.

"What is it?" she mumbled. "Is Gondain back yet?"

"He was, but then he left again." The orc moved quickly around the room, gathering up possessions into his pack. "Get up," he said, "Quickly. We need to get moving."

Stumbling out of bed, Dar'epha peered out the window. The sun had not even started to creep across the horizon, only a few faint rays penetrated the sky. "What's going on?" she asked, starting to put on her armour.

"There was a murder, just an hour ago. That Dunmer woman we've been after posed as the Gourmet and tried to poison the Emperor." Vash shouldered his pack, averting his eyes as Dar'epha finished dressing. "It was a decoy though, the Penitus Oculatus knew in advance, apparently Commander Maro has a deal with the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, Astrid. They abandon the contract on the Emperor and Maro gets to kill the woman who killed his son, and the Brotherhood gets to continue operating."

Strapping on her bow and making sure her daggers were in place, she followed Vash out of their room and downstairs.

"So where are we going then?" she asked.

"South, to Falkreath." Vash made long strides across the empty inn, pushing open the door out into Solitude. "The Commander went back on the bargain; his men are preparing to assault the Brotherhood's sanctuary as we speak. Gondain is with them."

"Well then, let's go!" she exclaimed. "We don't want to miss this."

"My thoughts exactly," agreed Vash. "We'll take the carriage, come on."

Fully armed and hoping to finally see some action, the pair headed at speed for the destruction of the Dark Brotherhood.

* * *

**Outside the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, Falkreath**

Gondain had not had much of a head start on his friends. His conversation with Commander Maro had been illuminating, to say the least. The Dunmer woman was being set up by her own leader, but the Brotherhood were being set up by Maro. Reasoning the death of the entire Brotherhood more important than one member, he had travelled south in a rage, without taking time to rouse his friends, meeting the assigned troops massing outside the sanctuary. Besides, he assured himself that Maro and so many Penitus Oculatus could surely kill one assassin, no matter how skilled.

Crouching among more Oculatus agents, he turned again, frustrated at the waste of time, to the one to his right. "They've got to know we're here, right? Let's go."

"Hey," said the agent, "You're not in charge here. We wait for my order."

"Fuck your orders," spat Gondain, feeling the rage flow through him, "I'm going in to get vengeance for my wife. You cowardly sacks of shit are welcome to join me if you've got the guts." Gritting his teeth, he pulled on his ebony helmet. Then he broke into a run, drawing his vicious daedric sword and heading straight for the Black Door. It was time for blood.

There was no pause in his run. He drew in a breath as he approached the door.

"Fus-ro-dah!" His Voice thundered ahead of him, blowing the door off its hinges and down a staired corridor. Leaping over it, he advanced into the sanctuary, hearing the agents running to catch up, no doubt carrying torches and oil with which to set the place ablaze.

Leaping down the stairs four and five at a time, Gondain descended into the sanctuary like a wrathful god.

The first chamber was empty, so he kept going down. In what seemed to be the main chamber, he was faced with a hulking werewolf, most likely the same one that had caused such chaos in Solitude only two days earlier. The beast came at Gondain with furious speed.

But Gondain knew more about werewolves than most; he was Harbinger of the Companions and, unbeknownst to those outside that group's inner Circle, a former werewolf himself. Although he'd cast the witch's head into the flames and removed his own curse, he still knew exactly what to do.

The beast leapt at him, its long arms and vicious claws reaching out for his throat. But he ducked and rolled under its leap, swinging his sword backwards as he did; delivering a cut to the back of the creature's left leg. It howled in agony, coming at him again, raining blows down upon his shield.

Gondain did not stagger or give an inch to the hail of strikes, nor did his armour or shield give way to the beast's strength. He was the best, and only used the best armour and equipment. Pushing back with his shield, he barrelled into the beast, slashing at its chest and arms, just having space for a quick strike across the nose before ducking to avoid an attack aimed at his head.

As he rose, his sword rose with him, plunging deep into the beast's chest. It howled and thrashed, its arms whirling in an attempt to dislodge its foe. Gondain retracted his blade, then struck again. The beast howled even louder, gurgled and fell backwards.

Smoke billowed down from the way he'd come, the Penitus Oculatus were doing their job, regardless of Gondain's presence. They would bring more torches, start more fires, and soon the entire place would be ablaze. He would have to finish his job within minutes.

Proceeding further into the sanctuary, he found something he hadn't expected: a small child, crouched pitifully in a corner, sobbing. Gondain frowned, deeply suspicious. A child, in the Dark Brotherhood sanctuary? As far as he knew, they took no prisoners. Which could only mean…

The child turned to face him, grinning a grin of pure malice. The grin of a vampire. The child sprang at his throat, but he was faster, bringing his sword down, ending her life in a flash. His foot turned the child's body out of his path, a nebulous swirl of darkness swamping his thoughts, spreading through his mind.

A flash of colour caught his eye, and he raised his shield just in time to block the deadly bite of a large frostbite spider, its fangs dripping with its viscous venom. It attacked again, its weight throwing him onto his back and in a flash, it was on him.

Before Gondain could react, or the creature could bite down, two projectiles appeared in the spider's face; an arrow and a spike of ice. Death came quickly for the spider, and he heaved off its body, rising and turning to face his two comrades.

Dar'epha was in her glass armour, another arrow notched in her bow. Vash had his hood up, with spells ready in both hands, a freezing point of ice in one, and a crackling bolt of lightning in the other. The air around him appeared to shimmer; he seemed to be surrounding himself with some sort of aura. Gondain was glad they were on his side, and glad they'd come despite his abandoning them.

The flames had started to gather momentum. Dar'epha looked around nervously.

"We should get out of here, Gondain," she said, "I have no desire to experience singed fur again."

"There might be another exit," Gondain said, "And there are certainly more members here."

Vash spoke cautiously, seeing Gondain's unstable state. "This place isn't going to last much longer, I can clear a path out for us, but it should be soon, I-"

He cut off as two Brotherhood assassins emerged down from a side door; a Dunmer woman in hood and robe, carrying two daggers, and a Redguard man in a red turban, wielding a scimitar.

All three of the adventurers reacted straight away. Gondain ran straight at them, but he was not quick enough. Dar'epha launched two arrows in quick succession. The first was a bullseye, hitting the elf in the neck, the second was less so, taking the Redguard in the shoulder. But as she was notching her second arrow, Vash was already in action. He launched an icy spear towards her, catching the Dunmer full in the chest, then launching a bolt of jagged lightning at the Redguard, throwing him back just after Dar'epha's arrow had struck him.

The elf woman crumpled to the ground, dead. The Redguard rose, undeterred It was at that second that Gondain's sword cleaved his arm from his body. A fraction of a second later, another arrow hit him, this time in the chest. He staggered, dropping his blade. Vash lunged forward, an ethereal sword appearing in his hand as he moved. In one quick strike, he severed the assassin's head.

The three stood in silence for a moment. Gondain looked appreciatively at Vash. "Not bad, for a scholar," he said.

Vash breathed out slowly. "They didn't put me in charge for my looks," he replied, an echo of a smile flashing across his face. It vanished as he crouched to examine the Dunmer. "This is not the woman I saw at the College," he said.

Gondain frowned. "That means Maro has done his job, I suppose," he said.

"Uh, guys?" interjected Dar'epha, "Could we save this until we're not surrounded by rising flames in an underground den of assassins?"

"Right," said Gondain, noticing the world outside his own vengeance for the first time since the attack. "Let's get out of here."

The three ran for the exit, Vash spraying arcs of ice at flames that got too close. Bursting out into the open air, they coughed heavily, clearing the smoke from their lungs. There was the sound of hooves, and Commander Maro was before, sweating from a fast horse ride.

"The woman got away," he said bitterly.

Dar'epha couldn't believe it. "You couldn't take down one skinny little elf?" she said, incredulous.

"She is no 'skinny little elf,' I assure you," the Commander said. "She killed seven of my agents during her escape. You did not find her within? I assumed she would head here straight away."

"No," said Gondain. "But everyone else inside is dead, or will be soon."

"Good," said Maro firmly. "My men say they burned the leader 'til she turned black, and they will remain here for a time to ensure no further assassins try to emerge." He turned his horse towards the road. "We will continue searching for the elf woman, but she is alone, and the last of her kind. We will find her." He trotted away.

Dar'epha spoke through gritted teeth. "He couldn't find that woman if she had her dagger up his arsehole." Vash raised an eyebrow at that one.

"You're right," said Gondain. "Our work isn't over just yet."


	19. Remnants

****_~My apologies for the wildly inconsistent lengths of these chapters, it's something I'll be looking to get better at with the next arc. Anyway, I thought this was a loose end that needed to be resolved. Thanks for reading~_

* * *

**Roadside Ruins, Falkreath Hold**

The recent days had not been kind to Jonah. Then, life had never been kind to him, he thought as he stumbled, tripping over ancient stones. He was close, he could feel it. Soon he would be at the hideout of the Dark Brotherhood, he would break down the Black Door, and the assassins would feel his wrath. They would know not to cross him.

He would have made the distance sooner if it were not for his wound. It has split open during his flight across the plains of Whiterun and in moment of rage he'd torn off the bandages, leaving it open to the air. The act of bandage-tearing had caused him great pain, indeed he thought he might have passed out for a moment, or it could have been hours.

He'd hoped to find a quiet resting place in the Western Watchtower, but as it turned out, guards were posted there constantly now, as the tower underwent repairs. Using the dead of night to his advantage, he'd snuck in and eliminated them with little fuss, his stolen axe biting into their flesh.

Sleep had been had after the killings, but not the re-energising rest he'd hoped for. His missing arm twinged and twitched as if it were still attached, keeping him from slumber. It still bled too, profusely. He glared at it as he approached the road, holding back and scanning both directions for passers-by. Seeing nobody, he darted across, stumbling jerkily, falling down a short drop onto his face in the grass. His movements would have been unnoticeable if it hadn't been for the blood trail he was leaving behind him everywhere he went.

Crashing through the foliage into the clearing where he'd last seen the Black Door, Jonah reeled at the sight of the blackened earth. The grass was burnt and dead in an arc leading out from the entrance, which was no longer guarded by the Door, but instead lay wide open, the way into the sanctuary available to any passer-by.

The sight of the scorched scene before him brought a flood of images into his head. The flames rising higher, closing in, nearer and nearer. The screams, the shouts. Sprinting, jumping, falling. The pain, the fear. Usually he could snap out of this, restore himself to the task at hand, or else he could dispel it by killing something.

This time, it did not vanish, his mind did not clear. The images grew louder and stronger. The hot stones under his feet, his muscles aching as he ran. A fireball whooshing down the corridor, ducking, diving for the floor, feeling it pass so close over him.

A thought occurred to Jonah as he stepped through the entrance to the sanctuary, momentarily over-riding the past. This scene of devastation meant that someone else had got to the Dark Brotherhood before him, someone else had stolen his vengeance. Maybe there was still time, maybe there was something left, something to kill.

The memories returned as he advanced further into the sanctuary, stepping over the remains of the door that at the corner in the stairs. The now-shattered door which had once denied his fruitless blows took him back, bringing forth the sound of breaking glass, the slow creak and then the horrendous crash of the collapsing roof, the thump of his heartbeat in his ears as he ran.

He entered the small first room of the sanctuary, and caught the faint sound of a voice coming from further down. He slowed his pace, gripping his axe tightly. Edging into the main chamber, he discovered a thin Dunmer woman in Dark Brotherhood armour, holding a one-sided conversation with a tall engraved metal cylinder.

"…alright, I'll go to her and- wait, someone's here," she said, turning to face Jonah. Her eyes gave away her condition: vampire.

"Oh, good," she said, advancing towards him, "I was just dying for a good feed."

Jonah let out a garbled roar and leapt towards her, his axe swooping down. But she moved to the side, faster than he thought anyone could move, his axe clanging on the floor.

He looked left and right, but she was nowhere to be seen. It was then he felt the cold metal draw across his throat, felt himself fall to his knees, felt his already depleted lifeblood draining away. The last sensation Jonah experienced was the sight of the assassin crouching, preparing to drink his blood.

He closed his eyes and embraced oblivion, finally free from the tortures of the past.


	20. Sins of the Unworthy

**Dead Man's Drink, Falkreath**

Vash slid into the bench next to Dar'epha, the two of them facing Gondain on the other side. Both still wore their armour, the latter's helmet now resting on the table. Indeed, the Dragonborn's chest and arms were still splattered with blood but the other patrons seemed not to be bothered by this as Vash had expected. On the trip down Dar'epha had revealed that Gondain had retired with his wife to a hut near Falkreath, before the Dark Brotherhood struck.

Silence weighed over their table, the sounds of the inn moving around them but never encompassing them. Vash could hear the local bard doing a passable rendition of _Ragnar the Red_, the local townspeople sifting in and out, drinking, eating, talking, any attempt at engaging the Dragonborn in conversation abandoned when the condition of his armour and the look on his face were spotted.

The three were all drinking wine, the soft clunk of bottle against table the only sound any of them made. Finally, scratching his beard, Gondain spoke.

"I'm sorry I left without you," he said, not looking either of them in the eyes. Vash reckoned he didn't know him well enough to speak here, and as Dar'epha also kept silent, Gondain went on.

"I… something came over me. All I could think of was tearing down the Dark Brotherhood's sanctuary, with my bare hands if I had to. Nothing else entered my mind." He paused, thoughtful. "I've been angry before, but this was different, pure fury, single-minded, I…" He trailed off.

Vash raised his eyes from his bottle. "I understand," he said. "After Urag was killed, when I left Winterhold, that's how I felt. Like nothing else mattered, like I wouldn't be whole again until my task was complete." Gondain nodded.

Dar'epha took a long swig from her bottle. "Forget it," she said after wiping her mouth with the back of her paw. "I would probably have done the same thing. It's done with."

"Not quite," said Gondain, planting both fists on the table. "The Dunmer woman escaped Commander Maro's trap, remember? And she wasn't at the burning of the sanctuary. She's the one who killed Urag, the Emperor's cousin, Gaius Maro, not to mention she tried to kill the Emperor himself, which was clearly what the Brotherhood were working their way towards. We need to finish the job."

Vash ran his hand over his smooth scalp. "What if she tries to do the same?" he asked.

Dar'epha's eyebrows shot up. "You mean you think she'll still go after the Emperor?"

Vash nodded. "That's exactly what I think."

Gondain agreed. "We need to get to him before she does. The Dark Brotherhood never abandons a contract. We have to get back to Solitude, when she makes her move, we'll be ready."

Dar'epha spat. "We're protecting the Emperor now? Damn it, Gondain, you know I hate getting involved in politics."

"If the Emperor dies it'll weaken the Empire enough that the Thalmor might make their move. We need a united Empire and a living Emperor." Gondain rose from his seat.

"How do we get in to see the Emperor anyway?" she asked, rising as Vash did.

Gondain smiled, and Vash could see it was almost genuine. "I'm the Dragonborn, remember?" he said. "And we've got the Arch-Mage here as well. I don't think we'll have any trouble."

"What about me?" asked Dar'epha as they moved to the door.

"Oh, I'm sure we'll let you tag along," said Gondain.

* * *

**The Bannered Mare, Whiterun**

Vialas kept her hood up as she entered the inn, making her way with silent footfalls towards the back room. The benches around the fire were getting full as the evening crowd started to gather, but none paid any note of her, absorbed in their own petty troubles.

Emerging from the Sanctuary after releasing Astrid to the Void, she'd found Shadowmere rising from the tarn. Together, she realised, they were the last of the Dark Brotherhood left in Skyrim. He'd carried her to Whiterun at great speed, where'd she made her way straight to the inn, the Blade of Woe tucked in her belt, fully intending to finish her contract and murder the Emperor of Tamriel. There would be no escape a second time for him, she thought. No decoys, no poison, no double-crossing, just Titus Mede II on the end of her dagger.

Amaund Motierre jumped in his seat when Vialas entered, closing the door behind her, leaving the two of them alone in the small room, the muffled sounds of the rest of the inn still coming through.

"What is it?" he said. "I said I didn't wish to be disturbed."

Vialas threw her hood back. "We have unfinished business, Motierre," she said, struggling to keep her voice flat as the images of the twisted bodies of her brothers and sisters came again to her mind.

"By the Gods, you're alive!" he exclaimed, rising from his chair so sharply that it fell backwards with a harsh clack. "But I had heard… your sanctuary. Please, you mustn't think I had anything to do with that! I want the Emperor dead, the true Emperor. I still do, that was all Maro's doing, I-" Vialas cut him off.

"The Emperor," she said, "The real one. Where is he?"

"You mean after all that's transpired, the Dark Brotherhood will still honour the contract? This is wonderful news!" A great smile had spread across Motierre's face. "The Emperor is still in Skyrim, but who knows for how much longer. You must hurry! He is aboard his ship, the Katariah, moored offshore in the Solitude inlet. If you can get aboard and kill Titus Mede II, then I will reveal the location of the dead drop that contains your payment."

Vialas did not bother to reply, turning and exiting the room, pushing aside a drunken Nord that lurched towards her leeringly. Returning to the cool night of Whiterun, she pulled her hood back up over her short black hair.

She didn't know what she'd do with Motierre's money after she'd killed the Emperor, she wasn't planning that far ahead. Leave Skyrim, certainly, she'd had enough of the damn place. But there was only one thing on her mind; murder most foul. The Emperor of Tamriel was as good as dead, she thought.


	21. Showdown

**On board the Katariah, Haafingar Hold**

"I suspected as much," said the Emperor of Tamriel. "The Dark Brotherhood is not known for abandoning their contracts."

"That was our conclusion as well, my lord," added the Dragonborn. He stood in-between his two companions, addressing Titus Mede II, who sat in a padded chair on the other side of a desk piled with books and documents.

"And you and your friends are here to offer me protection, no doubt," the Emperor went on. Gondain nodded, bringing his fist to his chest.

"Even if I were not of the Legion, I would still consider it a duty of utmost importance," he said. Vash folded his arms, more interested in examining the cabin's bookshelf than the ongoing conversation, but still paying full attention. Dar'epha fidgeted with her knives, uncomfortable with the formality of the situation, hoping for some action.

"Your loyalty is commendable," spoke the Emperor. "And I had indeed hoped to speak with you, Dovahkiin, before leaving Skyrim, but…" At that moment a Penitus Oculatus agent burst into the room, remembering himself at the last second and giving a sharp salute.

"Apologies for the interruption, my lord," stammered the agent, "But Commander Maro has just been found murdered on the docks, his throat slit."

"Thank you, that will be all," said the Emperor, resting his elbows on the table and folding his hands in front of his face. The agent exited.

"It's her!" exclaimed Dar'epha. "It's got to be!"

Gondain's frown matched the Emperor's. He took his helmet out of the crook of his arm and pulled it onto his head. "With your permission, my lord, the assassin may already be on board. It would be best to construct a defence within this room, should she get past your men."

The Emperor nodded. "Take whatever action you feel necessary." He looked at Vash. "Although I would prefer no fire spells, a flaming ship would not be to our advantage."

"Of course," replied Vash.

Gondain immediately took charge. "Dar'epha, take the right," he said, gesturing. "Get as many arrows as you can before I engage her, then fall back with your daggers. Vash, the left. The Emperor could use a ward, and whatever else you can throw with speed and accuracy."

Vash nodded, his fingers already moving. A ward appeared, shielding the Emperor on all sides except the back. "I was thinking ice," said Vash. "And a lightning rune near the door."

"Good thinking," agreed Gondain.

Maintaining the ward without any trouble, Vash strode to the closed door, casting a powerful rune just near the door, so that anyone entering would be unable to avoid it. He returned to his position, a spear of ice forming in his right hand.

Gondain drew his sword, taking his position directly in front of the Emperor's desk, facing the door. They all maintained a wary silence, waiting for the inevitable.

A horrendous scream came to their ears, coming from somewhere deeper in the ship. A second, higher-pitched scream was cut short. The Emperor shifted in his seat, and Vash and Dar'epha adjusted their stances, but Gondain remained still, every inch an immovable bastion in his ebony armour. His daedric blade and Dwemer shield moved not at all.

The next few minutes dragged on for an age. The Emperor wiped sweat off his forehead. Gondain's eyes narrowed beneath his helmet, his ears straining for the slightest sound. He heard nothing, until the door scraped open.

At first there was no-one there. Then a thin figure in red and black armour, splattered with blood and a manic look her eyes, raced through the opening. She saw the rune at the last second, going into a high front flip, twisting to the right in mid-air to avoid the lightning that sprung from the floor. This dodge also made her avoid both Dar'epha's arrow and Vash's ice spear, both thudding into the wall.

The woman was on the move again, heading straight towards the Emperor. Another arrow was in the air in an instant, zipping into her left shoulder but not slowing her pace. Still moving faster than Gondain had ever seen anyone move, the woman leapt, Vash's lightning bolt catching her on her right and throwing her across to the side of the room.

Another arrow appearing in the woman's stomach, but she bared her teeth and approached again, looking to loop past Gondain to the Emperor. Gondain swung his shield in a wide arc, knocking her back, lunging forward to plunge his sword into her unprotected chest.

The woman gasped, her eyes going wide. Realising her end, she slipped off the end of his blade, closing her eyes and collapsing to the floor, letting out a sigh on impact as the blood pooled around her. So died the last assassin of the Dark Brotherhood.

Gondain lowered his sword, expecting to feel a release, some closure as his quest for vengeance breathed its last. But he felt nothing, no emotion burned within him. Indeed the only thing he felt was a sort of hollowness, like some part of him had been removed. Only then did he realise what it was, only then did he fully contemplate the loss of Angi. Only then did he grieve.

Normally he would have removed his helmet, but he didn't want the Emperor, and certainly not his friends, to see the change that had come over his face. He turned to face the desk as Vash dispelled the ward.

"It's over," he said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt.

"My most humble thanks to you, all of you," said the Emperor. "Without you three I would now be lying here with my throat slit."

"Speaking of that…" said Dar'epha, drawing a dagger and moving to the body. "Best to make sure." She pulled it across the assassin's throat, adding to the pooling blood.

The Emperor raised an eyebrow, but did not comment. Instead, he rose from his seat and spread his arms, palms up. "Is there anything within my power I can do to thank you, anything at all. Never let it be said that Titus Mede II is not grateful." He looked from one of them to the next, Gondain with his face hidden, Vash scratching his scalp, and Dar'epha still holding her bloody dagger.

Vash cleared his throat awkwardly. "If it's not too much to ask," he unsurely, "I've been trying to rebuild Winterhold, as you may know. I have many citizens willing to help, but…"

"Not enough coin?" finished the Emperor. "I'm sure I can arrange that. Supplies too, if you need them. I'll fast-track a deposit; it'll be waiting for you before you get back. I've heard many good things about what you've been doing up there."

Vash smiled widely and did a half-bow. "Thank you, my lord," he said gratefully. Thinking, he added: "Although the College must remain neutral in all matters political, you can count on my personal support in Skyrim, should you require it."

The Emperor nodded. "And grateful I am to have it." He looked expectantly at the other two. Dar'epha spoke next.

"You can't give me anything I would want," she said. "But if you can take some advice, you might want to root out the rat in your ranks, someone on your Council probably ordered this contract. Look for whoever's missing their amulet."

The Emperor's brow became furrowed. "This is troubling news. Thank you for your information," he said. He faced the Dragonborn.

Gondain had been composing himself while his friends had been talking. Slowly and decisively, he spoke. "It's only a matter of time before the Dominion strikes again, isn't it?" he asked.

"I believe so, yes," replied the Emperor, his face darkening.

"Then we'll be ready," Gondain went on. "When the Dominion comes, Skyrim stands with the Empire. I'll turn the tide of elves back personally if I have to." He wrenched off his helmet. His face was dry, his expression determined. "No-one is going to destroy Skyrim, not after all I've done for it. When the Dominion comes, I'll be there, you can count on that."

He extended his gauntleted hand. Dragonborn and Emperor shook, each hoping to seal the future of Skyrim and the Empire.


	22. Parting of the Ways

_~That's it for this little arc. Next update will be another (long) interlude chapter, then we'll get stuck into the third and final arc of this story. It'll be longer again, with more characters, better locations, and so on. Anyway, thanks for reading.~_

* * *

**Solitude Docks, Haafingar**

Dawn rose over Skyrim as the three friends stood at the top of the stairs overlooking the docks. Only a single guard patrolled the planks, dousing his torch as the light grew strong enough to see clearly, but soon it would be a hive of activity, merchants unloading and loading goods, setting sail for distant and not-so-distant lands.

Gondain and Dar'epha had changed out of their armour, into civilian clothes, neither overly gaudy. Vash, as always, wore his robes of station. All three leaned easily on the railings, having caught a few hours of sleep at the manor.

"What now?" asked Dar'epha, to no-one in particular.

Vash straightened, bringing himself back to reality. "I'm heading back home," he said. "The Emperor's funds will come through, and Winterhold can get properly started on rebuilding itself." He looked at his new friends, feeling safe calling them that now. He'd met a lot of extraordinary people, but these two were something special. "We could always use more hands to help if you're at a loss."

Dar'epha smiled, gently rubbing her scars with a paw. "Tempting, but the Guild would fall apart without me. I need to get back to Riften."

"You know," said Gondain, looking thoughtfully at her, "I could have a talk with Delvin and Vex, probably get you elected Guild Master."

Dar'epha looked horrified. "Gods, no!" she exclaimed, raising both palms in front of her in mock defence. With Gondain laughing, she went on. "I couldn't handle that much responsibility, no way."

"What about you, Gondain?" asked Vash. "What will you do now?"

The Dragonborn looked serious, his eyes looking out over the ships docked in the bay, as if searching for something. "The Emperor's still in Skyrim for another week or so, that gathering of the Jarls, some other business. I thought I might stay, just in case whoever's out to kill him tries again."

Dar'epha dropped her smile. "You think they will?" she asked.

"No," said Gondain, shaking his head. "I don't think so, but it's better to be safe." He paused. "Then I thought I'd head to Hammerfell, maybe Elsweyr as well."

Vash nodded, understanding immediately. "I can see Hammerfell coming back, but Elsweyr? That could be a problem."

Dar'epha looked back and forth between the two of them. "What?" she asked, "What are you going to do?"

Gondain's voice was filled with purpose. "I'm going to try and reunite as much of the Empire as I can. We'll need every bit of help we can get when the Dominion strikes. Hammerfell held off the Thalmor on their own for five years, they would be of great assistance. You're right though," he said, turning to Vash, "Convincing all of Elsweyr that the Thalmor did not actually end the Void Nights will be difficult."

"There is some speculation," spoke Vash, "That the Thalmor actually caused the Void Nights so as to appear powerful when they ended them, although how they did either is not known."

Gondain sighed. "Well that's something to start with," he said.

There was silence again, the sun still edging its way up into the sky. A pair of sailors passed by, nodding in morning greeting as they headed down towards their ship. Dar'epha hopped up and backwards a tad, perching her behind on the railing.

The odd trio of Breton, Orc, and Khajiit were, more or less, content for that short while.

Dar'epha cleared her throat, summoning her courage that always seemed to desert her in trivial situations. "If you're going to Hammerfell," she said, "Would you like some company?"

"Of course," Gondain smiled, "But it won't be for a week at least, maybe longer. I have to wait for the Emperor to leave, for starters. Better call it two, just in case."

Dar'epha nodded happily. "Maybe it'll be nice to finally see Elsweyr," she said.

Vash raised his eyebrows with surprise. "You're not from there?" he asked. "I had wondered why you don't speak as other Khajiit do."

She coughed, steadying herself on the rail. "No, I was an orphan. An Imperial couple raised me in a town called Bruma, not far south of Skyrim's border. They were nice enough, I suppose. When I was old enough, I left, came to Skyrim to 'seek my fortune' or whatever. I don't know, I was young and stupid, thought I was the best thief since the Grey Fox. Glad I came, though," she finished, a shy smile spreading across her face.

Vash slipped his hand under his hood to lightly scratch his scalp. "How do other Khajiit treat you?" he asked. "The merchants in Skyrim and so on?"

She shrugged. "Same as everyone else, once I explain why I don't talk like them. I'm not ignorant of our culture, which helps, I guess."

Gondain stretched his arms together above his head, letting out a soft grunt as he reached the apex. "As much as I'd like to do this all day, duty calls," he said, looking out towards where the Katariah could be seen anchored further out in the bay. He turned to Dar'epha. "I'll come by the Guild in two weeks or so, we can head out from there." She nodded in response. He turned to Vash, and they shook hands. "It's been a pleasure, Vash," he said.

"Likewise," Vash replied. "You should come visit sometime, both of you. Winterhold's going to see some big changes pretty soon."

"We'll do that," said Gondain. "Farewell, both of you." He picked up his pack from where it had lain propped up against the railing, then shouldered it and moved off down the stairs. He turned at the base and waved, then headed further into the docks to find a boat to take him out to the Katariah.

Dar'epha dropped off the railing, thumping Vash on the back. "You taking the carriage back to Winterhold?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied.

"Come on then," she said, shouldering her pack and heading up the hill. "I'll ride with you 'til Whiterun. Got some thievery that needs doing there."

Vash smiled, shouldering his own pack and moving after her. He wasn't sure if Urag would have approved of the actions he'd taken over the past few days, but it didn't matter. The past was gone, just ashes in the wind, and he found that although killing the assassin hadn't eased his grief, finding two new friends certainly had.


	23. Interlude: The Lives of Others

_~Here we are, another interlude to introduce some new characters and revisit old ones, before we head into the third and final arc of this story. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

Ri'saad didn't think he'd find what he was looking for in Windhelm, but he figured it was worth a try. His Khajiit caravans, three in total, operated separately all over Skyrim, and were going from strength to strength. The last year and a half had been full of especially good fortune, with the Dragonborn having pushed for new laws allowing the Khajiit inside cities. There'd been rumours of him in recent weeks, Ri'saad pondered. That he'd emerged from retirement to destroy the Dark Brotherhood only to vanish again.

In that case, Ri'saad would have yet another thing to thank him for next time their paths crossed; avenging his friend and travelling companion Ma'randru-jo, who had been murdered by a Brotherhood assassin a month prior. Now, Ri'saad was searching for additional help guarding the caravan that he oversaw personally. While he and his fellow pawnbroker Atahbah were quick with a knife, he did not think the Khajiit warrior Khayla, proficient thought she was, constituted sufficient protection for the caravan.

Given the dearth of Khajiit in Skyrim, he'd been forced to look to the other races for additional mercenaries, finding most shady and unreliable. Not the sort of people he'd enjoy travelling with for great lengths of time around the province. Descending the stairs to Windhelm's docks however, he was approached by an Argonian, one of the dock workers from the look of him.

He was no taller than Ri'saad, but his shoulders were broad and his muscles bulged under his tattered and patched clothes. His face was less elongated than the other Argonians Ri'saad had met, and he lacked any of the elaborate horns like some of his race, maintaining only small sharp spikes on the back of his skull and along his jawline. When he spoke, his voice was deep and soft, and it seemed he was struggling with his words, as if he was reluctant to speak at all.

"I hear you're looking for some help," the big Argonian said.

Ri'saad sighed. He'd already talked to far too many folk who thought that just because they could swing a sword they were cut out for defending a caravan. "Have you had experience with mercenary work?" he asked.

"Not exactly," replied the Argonian. "But I can handle myself in a fight, if that's what you're asking."

Ri'saad narrowed his eyes, looking the scaled figure up and down. He did certainly look like he could handle himself. "Fine," he said, tired of his search and deciding to take a risk. "This one will give you a chance. When can you leave? Ri'saad wishes to travel to Whiterun with all haste; there are profits to be made."

"Give us a moment to gather our things," the Argonian replied.

"_Us?_" questioned Ri'saad. "_Our_ things? Who are you planning on bringing? This one will not tolerate any freeloaders."

The Argonian's expression hardened. "My wife is no _freeloader. _And we travel together or not at all." His eyes filled with violence, and Ri'saad feared for a moment that the he might go for his throat. He lowered his paw to rest on the handle of his knife.

"This one merely asks," he said quickly, trying to dispel the situation, "So as to determine what skills your wife, most lovely as I'm sure she is, can bring to the caravan."

The Argonian snorted. "She's a mage," he said shortly.

Ri'saad smiled, that was a pleasant surprise. Ma'randru-jo had been an elemental mage, and he'd been looking for a suitable replacement. "This one can always find use for the talents of a mage." He straightened, attempting to regain some authority. "The caravan is just beyond the stables, ready to leave. Be there as soon as possible or it shall depart without you." He extended his hand and the Argonian shook it, his grip stronger than any Ri'saad had felt before.

He nodded a farewell and turned, ascending the stairs back into the city, wondering how the others would take to the new additions.

* * *

It was only a couple of minutes before the Argonian joined Ri'saad at the caravan, having barely had time to tell his two companions, Atahbah and Khayla, of who he'd hired. The Argonian was accompanied by a hooded figure in similarly patched clothes, who upon the removal of said hood, revealed herself to be a small and quite attractive Bosmer with a narrow face. Ri'saad was surprised, and his face must have revealed so, as the Argonian's wife spoke.

"Not many people expect an Argonian to be married to a Wood Elf, I know," she said. "And he probably didn't even introduce himself either, huh?" She cast a loving reproachful look at her husband, who carried a small sack slung over his shoulder. "I am Falin, and this is my husband Kureeth. Many thanks for agreeing to take us on."

Ri'saad saw that Falin did enough talking for both of them. "Welcome," he said, "To both of you. I am called Ri'saad; owner of this fair caravan, among others." He indicated the other two Khajiit who stood on either side of him. "This is Atahbah, who works her own sort of magic in the market. And this is Khayla, resident swordmaster."

Khayla approached the two newcomers, sizing them up. She addressed Kureeth. "Do you have a blade of your own?" she asked.

Kureeth shook his head. "Don't need one," he said. He swung his bag off his shoulder and from it removed two battered steel gauntlets, which he slipped on.

Khayla looked bemused, but Kureeth smiled. "Come," he said, urging her on.

She drew her sword, unsure of how to approach the seemingly unarmed man. Raising her sword above her head, she brought it down slowly, not wanting to actually hurt him. With speed surprising for his bulk, Kureeth grab the blade of the sword in both hands, raising a foot to kick the Khajiit back, wrenching the blade from her hand. Lunging forward, he brought the pommel of the sword up under her chin, halting just before impact.

He lowered the sword and handed it back to her hilt first. "A warrior is only as good as their weapon," he said reluctantly. "My body is my weapon."

Khayla raised her eyebrows, taking back her sword. "You could use some armour, though," she said eventually, pondering the new approach.

Kureeth shrugged. "It'd have to be light," he said.

Ri'saad was impressed, but experience had taught him to be wary. "I'm sure we have some armour in the back that could be of use," he said. "If not, some could be bought in Whiterun."

Falin looked eager to set off. "We're going to Whiterun, then?" she asked.

"Yes," nodded Ri'saad, "Then on to Markath. There is no real set route, although this one tries not to overlap with the other caravans. If we arrive at a city and, say, Ma'dran is there already, then we move on." He turned, clambering up into the driver's seat and taking the reins of the two horses attached to the carriage, Khayla taking her place next to him.

"Get in," he said, gesturing to the back of the covered wagon. "There are all sorts customers waiting; one merely has to find them."

* * *

Over the next few weeks Kureeth and Falin more than proved their worth. Khayla wasn't convinced until she saw him in action, swaying away from attacks, using every part of his body in the fight (even his scaled tail at some points), delivering brutal punches with his gauntleted fists. In Whiterun they had the smith Adrianne craft a custom set of studded leather armour, giving him protection but still allowing him the freedom of movement he utilised so well. Despite Ri'saad's protests, he refused to wear a helmet.

Falin too was well worth her wage. She specialised in Illusion and Alteration magics, able to shield the caravan and at the same time turn enemies against each other (She was also a passable healer). She and her husband were clearly proficient in working as a team, and they were in the process of learning how to work with Khayla in a fight. Ri'saad seemed very pleased with his finding the couple.

One memorable occasion had seen them taking on a raging frost troll while on route to Dawnstar. With skin strengthened to iron by one of Falin's spells, Kureeth had dodged and endured the beast's strikes, delivering a staggering blow to its face with his gauntlets that, amazingly, knocked the troll to the ground. Kureeth was on the verge on shattering the troll's skull when Falin called him back, temporarily pacifying it with a spell so the caravan could scarper.

* * *

On the road south of Sentinel, deep into Hammerfell, Gondain's sword bit deep into the Redguard bandit's chest. Turning, he saw Dar'epha retrieving an arrow from the eye of another body with an unpleasant squelch. Wiping it on the dead man's clothes, she returned it to her quiver.

"I can see why the Daedra are fond of you," she said. "You must have killed enough by now to fill half the planes of Oblivion."

Gondain grinned, wiping down his sword. "You're right, maybe we should take on the Dominion ourselves. How hard could it be?" Sheathing his blade, he dragged the bodies off to the side of the road, retrieving his and Dar'epha's packs from where they had been dropped, tossing hers over to her.

Catching it, Dar'epha fell into step beside him as they continued their journey. "How long could it take?" she went on. "A quick boat trip across to the isles, a boot up the Dominion's backside, and safely back home for supper."

"Ah, if only," remarked Gondain wistfully, as they headed south, further from home and safety than they'd ever been.

* * *

A month after Falin and Kureeth joined the caravan saw them back in Windhelm for the first time. They made good coin, and as he was packing up, Ri'saad gave the couple a pouch of coins and a list, and told them to go stock up on food, potions and other essentials for the road before they left.

Ambarys Rendar at the New Gnisis Cornerclub provided them with ample food, which Kureeth hoisted into a sack over his shoulder. Moving on to Sadri's Used Wares, they found that Revyn Sadri was low on potions, some excuse about the roads being in poor repair. Apologising profusely, he gave them a letter of credit and told them to go to The White Phial for the required items.

"Where next?" asked Kureeth, as the couple trudged through the snow across Windhelm to the alchemist's store.

"I think Ri'saad said something about Winterhold," replied Falin. "Apparently it's really expanding under the Arch-Mage, he's working to restore it to better than how it was before the Collapse. Ri'saad thinks of it as a business opportunity, naturally." She paused as they passed Candlehearth Hall. "I was thinking of enrolling in the College. After we've made enough money with the caravan, of course."

Kureeth stretched his shoulders, re-shifting the sack he carried. "I've always wanted a house," he said.

"Exactly!" replied Falin. "I'm grateful to Ri'saad for the opportunity he's given us, and I am enjoying our time with the caravan, but I don't want to do this forever. I'm just saying, sometime in the future I want to settle down, and Winterhold seems like the place to do it."

"Not yet," grunted Kureeth.

"Of course not!" Falin went on. "Travelling with Ri'saad is certainly exciting, I'm just saying, let's scope out Winterhold, perhaps have a word with the College, and start putting some money aside. Alright?"

"Sure," said Kureeth. "Good plan." He opened the door to the White Phial, holding it for Falin, then following her inside, closing it to block out the whistling Windhelm winds.

* * *

Kara felt a smile trickle across her face as the odd couple entered the shop. A wood elf and an Argonian, but they'd clearly made it work. Love overcomes all boundaries, she thought, as the saying goes.

"Are you still open?" asked the elf woman. "We were hoping to do business."

"Of course," said Kara, leaning on the counter. "What can I help you with?" She was glad she'd taken this job. Nurelion, the original owner of The White Phial, had passed some time ago and his apprentice, Quintus Navale, had taken over. Becoming the resident master alchemist, he had been looking for an apprentice as well as someone to help run the shop and Kara, at a loose end, had accepted his offer.

"Just what's listed here," replied the wood elf, sliding a piece of paper across the counter.

Kara examined the list. "Shouldn't be more than a moment," she smiled, retrieving the listed potions from the shelves below and behind the counter. The usual mix of health and stamina potions, with a selection of less common, several solutions designed to prolong magicka use, and a large quantity of resist cold potions.

Lining them up on the counter, Kara watched as the Argonian began slowly and gently adding them to the sack he carried. The wood elf passed another note over the counter, revealing itself upon examination to be a letter of credit.

Kara cleared her throat, raising her voice so as to be heard upstairs. "Quintus!" she yelled. "Is Sadri's credit still good?"

Her employer's voice drifted back down the stairs, considerably quieter than her own. "Yes, but this is the last time. Next time I want to see coin from that two-bit thief."

Kara rolled her eyes, causing the wood elf to laugh.

"I take it you know him then," said her customer.

"Only too well," replied Kara. "Is there anything else?"

"No, thank you. A good evening to you." The couple turned to leave,

"And to you," replied Kara. The Argonian once again held the door open for the wood elf. They exited. She realised he hadn't spoken a word the whole time he'd been in the shop.

Kara stood motionless for a moment, contemplating what she would do with her evening. Despite accepting Quintus' offer for employment, she had decided to reside elsewhere, lodging in House Shatter-Shield.

Torbjorn Shatter-Shield was a man who had known incredible loss. He once had a wife and two daughters, but all were now gone. His first daughter, Friga, was murdered in the days when the serial killer known as the Butcher terrorised Windhelm. When the Butcher was caught and killed by the Dragonborn in the days following the end of the Civil War, the Shatter-Shields thought they would be allowed to grieve in peace. But fate had other cruel plans. The second daughter, Nilsine, was murdered by the Dark Brotherhood for reasons unknown. Finding the light gone from her life, Torbjorn's wife Tova had committed suicide, leaving him all alone in the world.

Unable to stand being alone in an empty house, Torbjorn had eventually opened his home to lodgers. Kara filled one bed, and a quiet high elf had filled the other, with Torbjorn still residing and acting as landlord.

Quintus descended down the stairs, his voice interrupting Kara's memories. "You can leave now if you want," he said. "I'll close up."

Absent-mindedly, she thanked him and exited into the cold streets of her city, wrapping her arms around herself to keep warm. She still thought of it as her city, despite the absence of Stormcloaks wandering its narrow streets. She'd returned to Windhelm, over a year ago by her reckoning, after a confrontation with the Dragonborn had convinced her she needed to change her ways. She'd been living in the wilds of Skyrim after Ulfric's death, a loss that had pained her in more ways than one. Escaping from Imperial patrols by the thinnest of margins, always evading them as they purged the last few rebel camps, she had become the last Stormcloak.

Now she had a new life, with new skills. Following the path past the gravestones and up the stairs, she unlocked the door to House Shatter-Shield. Torbjorn was in the main room, obviously on his way out.

"Ah, Kara," he said, "I'm glad I caught you. I was wondering whether you would dine with me tonight. Antario would join us, of course."

If he had not added that last sentence, Kara would have likely refused politely. But Antario, the Altmer who occupied the downstairs room, was a good conversationalist on the rare occasions he did allow himself to be drawn out of his seclusion.

"Of course," she said. "I'd be delighted."

Something strained on Torbjorn's face, and it seemed like he was perhaps trying his hand at feeling an emotion other than sadness. Or perhaps he was merely seeking a distraction from his sorrows by way of the dinner.

"Splendid," he said. "I'll have Nils bring us something nice." He exited into the evening snows.

Kara ascended to the second floor, turning right at the top of the stairs into her room, which was quite large given the low rate. She supposed Torbjorn needed the company more than the gold. Removing her outer layer, she smoothed her pale blonder hair back and straightened the neckline of her shirt. She refused to wear skirts, something of her warrior past that had remained. Her sword remained too, hanging on the wall over her bed, although she barely spared it a glance, the days of killing and adventure long past.

* * *

Dar'epha gazed up at the statue, her brows furrowed.

"I know I should know who this is," she said. "But I don't. So who is it?"

Gondain stood with arms folded, contemplating the large stone figure with an appreciative look. "The Hero of Kvatch, The Champion of Cyrodiil," he said. "Single-handedly saved this town during the Oblivion Crisis, found Martin Septim, whole crisis wouldn't have been stopped without him."

Dar'epha squinted at the statue, the fading light not affecting her feline eyes. "Him?" she asked. "It could be a her."

Gondain agreed. "Yeah, it's hard to make out. Race isn't clear either. See that hood?" he pointed. "Could be mer ears under there, impossible to tell."

Dar'epha yawned and clasped her hands, stretching them out in front of her. "Are we going to stay here?" she asked, "Or get going straight away?"

"We may as well stay," Gondain replied. "I need to find a courier, the Emperor needs an update on how we're progressing."

"How are we progressing?" asked Dar'epha.

Gondain snorted. "I haven't got a fucking clue."

* * *

Torbjorn retired after dinner, leaving Antario and Kara sitting across from each other at the long table. The candles were burning low, and the Altmer suggested they relocate to the fireplace upstairs. Taking a detour through the kitchen to pick up two bottles of mead, they settled in the armchairs in front of the fire, the only noises the shifting of logs and the clink of bottles.

"I wouldn't have figured you for a mead drinker," said Kara eventually, dismayed with her attempt at conversation as soon as it exited her mouth. She looked at Antario's thin, unblemished face and his fine robes, and not for the first time wondered who he really was.

"I have been in this province so long," he said, "That it seems I have developed a taste for it." He rolled the bottle loosely in his hands.

Kara saw an in. "How long have you been here?" she asked, straining to sound casual.

Antario met her eyes. "Almost four years," he replied. "Although my purpose has somewhat reversed since my arrival."

Kara's mouth opened a little, her mind struggling to phrase a question. A small smile spread across Antario's face.

"You are curious as to my purpose in Skyrim?" he asked. "My mission, such as it is?"

"Yes," she said. "There aren't exactly a lot of your kind in Skyrim who ain't agents of the Thalmor." She stopped, realising her mistake. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…"

Antario cut her off with a wave of his hand. "It is nothing, a perfectly natural assumption for you to make. Indeed, it is the same assumption most of your people make when they see me. It is the reason why I do not leave this house more often than is absolutely necessary."

Kara nodded in understanding. The Nords were not exactly known for their tolerance, although things had improved significantly over the past few years, much of it the work of the Dragonborn.

Antario went on. "Before I tell you why I am here, I must ask of you two questions. Firstly, you have a large sword hanging above your bed. You have spoken very little about your life before you came to live in this house, but I must ask; can you wield that blade?"

Kara was surprised, but she answered. "Yes, I… I was in the war. The Civil War, I mean. But I don't see why that matters," she pushed on, unwilling to reveal her old allegiances.

"It may come to pass," said Antario, his face becoming grim, "That trouble will find me, perhaps in this house. In that case, I was merely hoping that you could handle yourself in a fight, should it come to that."

Kara leaned forward in her chair, shortening the distance between them. "Will it come to that?" she asked.

"It may," Antario repeated. "But first, the second question?"

"Ask away."

He drained the remainder of his bottle, then returned Kara's intense gaze. "What can you tell me about the Dragonborn?" he asked.


	24. Swirls of Thought and Snow

Striding through the snows sweeping across his town, Vash gro-Nul, Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold, could not prevent pride seeping into his heart. The Emperor's donation had been put to good use, and the hard work was paying off. The town was growing still, there were now multiple houses, those that had lain in ruin had been rebuilt. There was a stable too, with a resident carriage driver, saving College members and Winterhold residents the long dangerous slog through the snow to Windhelm. Vash was in the process of scouting around for a blacksmith willing to set up shop in the town, the house and forge already built, merely waiting for someone to tend to them.

There was a proper guard barracks too, extended from the Jarl's Longhouse. Jarl Kraldar had been incredibly supportive, Vash thought, it would have not have been possible without him. Kraldar was a big fan of the College, perfectly willing to forge stronger ties between it and the town. Over the year and a half since he'd become Arch-Mage, Vash had come to know the Jarl quite well. They often sat up late together in the Frozen Hearth, drinking wine and planning further extensions to Winterhold.

Pulling his robes of office tighter around him, Vash reached the bridge leading to the College, the night gathering around him, the snow still falling, always falling. He paused, looking back down the street. Always more to be done, he thought. Besides the blacksmith, he would have liked more new students at the College. With Onmund promoted to librarian many months prior, the remaining students, Brelyna and J'zargo, could not really be called students any longer. They were becoming more proficient by the day, and were essentially free to pursue their own areas of interest. For Brelyna, that meant shapeshifting, an area none of the senior mages could offer assistance in. She was forging new ground, and Vash was thrilled. He'd already been her willing test subject several times and it had not yet produced any negative effects, other than the green stain that had overridden his vision for several hours after returning from the form of a cow. Luckily, it hadn't been permanent.

For J'zargo, being free to do what he willed meant fire. He had been persuaded to confine it to the Hall of the Elements, leaving large scorch marks on the floor, walls and even ceiling. He was also breaking new ground, admittedly, refining and improving flame cloak and fireball spells with barely contained delight at the destruction.

A shaft of firelight briefly illuminated the street as the door of the inn opened, and Ranmir stumbled and fell into the snow, clearly drunk again. Struggling to rise, he cursed, slumping back down, seemingly content to freeze to death in the main street.

Vash felt his lip curling into a snarl and tried to suppress it. He was the Arch-Mage, it was not his place to pass judgment on the populace. Scanning the street and seeing none of the guard in sight, Vash strode towards the drunk, muttering under his breath.

He hefted Ranmir up, bringing his arm around his shoulder, his hefty orc frame having no trouble lifting him.

"Come on, Ranmir," he said. "Are you trying to freeze to death out here? Let's get you home."

"Arch-Mage?" slurred Ranmir, fumbling the first syllable. "You're not bad, for an orc. Done a good job around…" he descended into intelligibility as they made their way across to the house where Ranmir lived with his sister, Birna, in her general store. Struggling to hold his tongue, Vash readjusted his grip on the drunk as he knocked on the house door.

The door opened to reveal Birna, a Nord woman with dirty blonde hair and a tired face. She reacted with no surprise in seeing her brother too drunk to walk.

"Thanks, Arch-Mage," she sighed, reaching forward to brush the snow out of her brother's hair. "I'll take him from here."

Vash nodded tiredly, heaving Ranmir through the doorway and turning to go. "You might want to consider giving him less gold next time," he recommended, walking back into the snow.

He understood now why Gondain had retired to obscurity. You could do everything someone asked of you, save the world, rebuild their homes, revive their fortunes, and still they would ask for more, still they would look down on you. Vanishing into the wilds was something Vash thought about doing occasionally, he reasoned that if his position as Arch-Mage didn't require him to travel so much he might go crazy. There was solace in his books and his College, but he could only study for so long before he longed for the open road once more.

Thinking of Gondain brought back Vash's last memory of him. The Dragonborn and Dar'epha had come to visit, staying for a few days before heading off to Hammerfell. They'd made him felt like he was wanted, and he found he was able to be at ease around them. He considered them his friends, despite only knowing them for a short time.

It had been months since they'd gone. Vash counted in his head, seven, no, eight. They'd sent him a letter from Bravil in southern Cyrodiil, updating him on their trip, saying they'd be heading down into Elsweyr, where it would be considerably harder to get word out. But that had been five months ago, and nothing since. He missed them, he realised. He'd enjoyed their time on the road together, hunting the Dark Brotherhood, despite the grim nature of the mission, as well as the days they'd stayed with him before they left.

On the bridge, Vash passed Enthir, no doubt on his way to the Frozen Hearth for dinner. Much of the College did the same, indeed, if one could not find a College member within the College itself, then they would most likely be found at the Frozen Hearth. They exchanged greetings as they passed each other. Vash silently noticed the improved stonework on the bridge now meant they did not have to step so gingerly across the icy stones.

His raised arm triggered the gate, and Vash wished for nothing more than the silence and warmth of his chambers. However, in the courtyard under the statue, he was met by Tolfdir, Master Wizard. The bearded and aged man looked weary; his office was clearly more than he had the energy for. Still, he persevered, rising to the task.

"Arch-Mage," he breathed, "There is a matter that demands your attention."

Vash couldn't keep himself from sighing. Of course there was a matter that demanded his attention. There always was, and when he'd dealt with that, there'd be another and then another. A never-ending cycle of other people's problems.

"Yes, Tolfdir, what is it?" he asked, already dreading the answer.

"The Jarl of Eastmarch has reported aftershocks from the Eye of Magnus within his borders, he asks for you personally." Tolfdir fumbled in his pockets and pouches, eventually withdrawing a folded piece of paper. "This is the Jarl's letter," he said, handing it over.

Vash took it solemnly. He'd dealt with aftershocks from their misadventure with the Eye of Magnus before, warps in reality that spat out dangerous green wisps.

"Thanks, Tolfdir," he said. "I'll head down there in the morning."

"Of course, Arch-Mage," nodded Tolfdir. "Good night."

"Good night." Tolfdir moved away towards the Hall of Attainment, and Vash resumed his way towards his quarters, opening the main doors and heading up the many flights of stairs, the narrow stone corridors constricting him, trapping him. His quarters were certainly spacious, his personal garden aesthetically pleasing as well as useful, but he would prefer to be under the open sky any day.

He examined the note from the Jarl of Eastmarch, Brunwulf Free-Winter, a good man who had improved the lot of Dunmer, Argonian and Khajiit in Windhelm, lifting them far above the level where Ulfric had relegated them.

The note revealed the disturbance had been sighted in a most inconvenient location, on the road from Windhelm to Whiterun, alongside the White River. The Jarl, to his credit, had posted guards at a safe distance on either side, directing travellers to alternate routes. The guards would remain until the Arch-Mage arrived to dispel the magic. He pocketed the note.

Dissatisfied, Vash summoned a small ball of light, rolling it across the back of his knuckles, then letting it spin gently around his closed hand, wider and wider until he let it fly loose to navigate the twisted branches of the tree that grew in the centre of the garden, fed by sunlight from a window in the ceiling far above, now dark as night settled over Skyrim.

He wished he could see Gondain and Dar'epha again. So long since he'd had word! Elsweyr was certainly a dangerous place, even without the Dominion's influence. But he was certain if anyone could handle it, it was those two. Vash had never seen someone move with such battle-hardened confidence as Gondain, had never seen anyone launch arrows with such precision as Dar'epha. With his magic, he doubted that, as a team, there was much that could stand in their way.

Vash cautioned himself against arrogance, down that road lay an unpleasant end. He never overestimated his own abilities, there was always more to learn, always better and more improved ways to cast spells, especially in a combat situation.

It had been a while since Vash had fought anything, not since he'd had to fend off a group of spriggans while on an excursion to the sanctuary of the Eldergleam. Shaking his shoulders, he attempted some practice. In the span of a second, an ethereal curved sword appeared in his right hand. He'd always had a preference for bound weapons, as they were known, appreciating their ability to allow him to get in close to the action. Examining the blade, he noticed imperfections, fuzziness along parts of the edge. Dismissing it, he pictured instead Gondain's favoured daedric sword.

His eyes closed, the sword surging forth from his memory. It appeared in his hand, a perfect translucent replica. Upon examination, he could find nothing wrong with his conjuring. Delving deep into his magic reserves, he cast a protective spell that gave his flesh the hardness of ebony. Grunting with satisfaction as he felt the additional weight behind his movements, he strode to the wall and slammed his left fist into it, leaving a sizeable crack and loosing dust onto the floor. He felt no pain in his hand.

With this combination, he could be deadlier on the field of battle than any warrior, able to alter his fighting style in an incredibly short span to suit whatever situation arose. He sighed. This battle competence was of no use if he was cramped inside all day. He loved his College, particularly the Arcanaeum, but only so much could be learnt within those walls.

* * *

Still restless after dinner, Vash took a walk on the battlements, stepping carefully so as not to slip on the stones. Tugging on his hood, he wrapped his arms around himself, pulling his Arch-Mage's robes tighter. One could only get used to Winterhold's climate to a certain extent, it always still had the ability to chill one to the very core.

Reaching the point that overlooked the town, he paused, surveying what lay before him. Maybe, he thought, there was a way to raise the land again, restore the fallen cliffs that had crumbled in the Great Collapse. Perhaps the senior mages might have something to input on it. His mind was running over the sheer amount of magic reserves that would be needed for such an endeavour when he noticed something.

The light of a single torch could be seen, a way out from the town, slowly making its way closer. It bobbed and flickered, and threatened to go out. But slowly it made ground, the figure carrying it coming into view, slogging through the snows. An unmistakable figure, and as it drew closer a grin spread across Vash's face. For it was the figure of the Dragonborn.


	25. The Time has Come

Kara lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. The hour was late, and her day had been full, but she was unable to sleep. Six months since Antario had revealed his true purpose in Skyrim. Six months of waiting for the inevitable.

Her ears strained for a sound, any sound. Maybe it would be tonight, she thought, as she thought every night. She was probably worrying too much, she reasoned. It hadn't happened any night before this, what were chances of it happening now? Still just as low.

Or just as high. Her drooping eyelids snapped open. She'd heard a faint sound from downstairs. Maybe she'd imagined it. Maybe there were skeevers gnawing around the foundations again. Maybe it was nothing. Or maybe not.

Sliding silently out of bed, she slipped a robe over her long nightshirt to protect against the chill. Willing her bed not to creak, she placed one foot upon it and reached up to retrieve her sword that hung above. Luck was on her side, her bed did not let out a sound and hefting the all-too-familiar grip of her steel broadsword in both hands, she stepped silently towards her door.

Lifting the latch with painful slowness, she heard another noise, this time unmistakable. Someone had opened the front door. Neither Antario nor their landlord Torbjorn would be leaving the house at such an hour. As far as she knew, they were both asleep in their beds. Edging the door open just wide enough, she peeked through the slit, seeing nothing. Edging it wider, she moved fluidly through the gap into the main area of the upstairs, trying to keep as quiet as possible.

At the top of the stairs she paused, lowering into a crouch to peer downstairs. Easing the door shut behind them were three Altmer, dressed in such a way that there could be no mistaking their allegiances: Thalmor. One was dressed in fine hooded black robes and carried no visible weapon; Kara marked him as a mage. The other two were in full elven armour, carrying swords and shields of the same make.

The mage pointed to one of the others, then pointed upstairs. Nodding his understanding, the warrior moved towards the stairs, the other two creeping slowly in the direction of Antario's room. In a few short moments they would be in, catching her friend in his sleep, defenceless. Kara decided the time for sneaking was over.

"_ANTARIO!_" she bellowed. "_They're here!_"

The mage spun at the sudden sound, saw her and cursed. "Shut her up!" he spat, him and the warrior beside him vanishing into Antario's room. The warrior heading upstairs doubled his pace, reaching the landing and locking eyes with Kara.

In that instant, a flash of memory came back to her; her fight with the Dragonborn. He'd criticised her approach, said she came in too fast, fought too recklessly. It was how he'd bested her so easily. In the time that had passed since, looking over her past fights with the critical eye of hindsight, she had come to agree with him. But there was a time and a place for a careful approach, and this was not it. Completely disregarding the advice of the greatest warrior she'd ever faced, she leapt from the top of the stairs with her sword above her head, a primal roar escaping her lips.

Her feet hit the landing as her blade cleaved through her enemy, cutting through his shield and slamming him back against the wall. Before he could recover, Kara had made a savage blow at his neck, severing his head from its body. The body slumped in a heap, while the head rolled down the rest of the stairs to come to a stop near the front door.

Following the head down the stairs, Kara headed across the main room, seeking to aid Antario. She'd barely made it halfway when there was a flash of light and the second warrior burst from Antario's room, travelling through the air with his limbs all pointing back towards the room, his back colliding with the long table, producing a loud crash, knocking over goblets and candlestands. The warrior moved to get up, but Kara took a few quick steps, reversed her grip on her sword and driving it into the elf's chest.

Before she got a chance to move further, Antario emerged, wearing only a pair of loose trousers, his bare torso splattered with blood, a glass sword clenched in his fist, the air around him crackling with magical energy. There was a furious expression on his face, nothing like Kara had seen on him before.

Seeing the bodies of the two elves, his stance relaxed. His aura diminished as he looked Kara in the eye, unabashed by his lack of clothes.

"You are not injured?" he asked. Kara shook her head, her cheeks red and breaths harsh from the exertion. She'd strived to keep fit while working at the alchemist's but it had been quite some time since she'd engaged in such a fight. She was out of shape, she realised dejectedly.

It was then that Torbjorn descended the stairs, a short steel sword in his hand, and his face white as his gaze wandered over the bodies. Kara knew without asking that images of his lost family were coming back to him at the sight of such violent deaths. It seemed that death had followed Torbjorn once again, despite his wishes to escape it.

"What in Shor's name is going on?" he asked, his voice hollow. "What have you done?"

Antario did a half-bow, resting his bloody sword on the table as he rose. "My most humble apologies, Master Shatter-Shield," he said, his left hand moving to his face, tucking his lengthening deep blonde hair behind his elven ears. "You have been a host beyond reproach and I have repaid you by bringing death and despair into your home. I wish that events could have transpired differently, but it seems I have left it too late."

"Who are you?" Torbjorn asked. He turned to Kara. "And you, Kara? You knew of this? I had no idea you were so competent with that sword."

Kara hung her head, the point of the sword in question coming to rest on the floor. "I'm truly sorry," she said. "You didn't ask for this."

"Indeed you did not," continued Antario. "But you can rest assured that such an incident will not befall you in the future. Kara and I will be departing as soon as possible, and the quarrel these people have with me… with us, I should say," he added, looking at Kara, "will follow us, not linger here. I will, of course, provide adequate compensation for the disturbances, enough to cover the removal of these bodies as well as several months' worth of rent."

Torbjorn's face softened a little and the point of his sword lowered. He looked at the bodies with more comprehension. "These are High Elves… Thalmor? Why is your own kind after you?" he asked.

A regretful look passed over Antario's face. "I wish that I had conclusive answers for your questions, Master Shatter-Shield, but I believe that it is probably better if you know as little as possible. You would, however, be advised to screen any new lodgers thoroughly. The Dominion's net is wide."

"This is beyond me," said Torbjorn tiredly, walking forward to slump on one of the benches at the table, tossing his sword down. He looked up at Antario, and he seemed to Kara a man sick of the drudgery of living. "I'll have to inform the Jarl," he said.

Antario nodded easily, as if he had foreseen such a turn of events. "There is no action I can take to prevent you from doing so," he said. "But it would be to our advantage if you were to wait until after we have departed to inform Jarl Free-Winter."

"He's probably asleep now anyway," added Kara, straight away regretting even opening her mouth. Her words seemed so clumsy and crude compared to Antario's flowery way of speaking.

"Indeed," said Antario. "Now, Kara, if you would don your armour and pack, we can be on our way. We should reach our destination before dawn if we travel with speed."

Kara hesitated. "Whiterun?" she asked.

A flash of annoyance passed over Antario's face. "Yes, Whiterun. Quickly now! Time may be slipping away from us more than we know."

Kara held her tongue and rushed up to her room, taking the stairs three at a time. She darted about, tossing her sword on the bed, gathering her few possessions into her pack; an amulet of Talos, a tightly wrapped bundle of clothes, a couple of potions, a loaf of bread, a large wheel of yellow goat cheese, and a small pouch of gold. Tying off the opening of the pack, she rested it on her bed beside her sword and slid a chest out from underneath from where she'd been so recently lying awake. She opened it to reveal a full set of steel plate armour, commissioned by Antario with the last of his gold from Oengul War-Anvil.

Slowing down her movements but finding her heart still racing, she put on her armour. She hadn't worn it often since its purchase, but she was still impressed by Oengul's craftsmanship, each piece fitted her perfectly. Tapping the chest-piece appreciatively with her now gauntleted hand, she found herself smiling. The situation was too serious for such an expression, she thought, so she removed it, instead focusing on strapping her sword to her back. Tucking her helmet under one arm, she tossed the pack of the other shoulder. Before exiting the room, she took one last look around.

It had been a home to her for many months, but she realised there was now nothing about it that she would miss. Clearing her throat for no discernible reason, she left the room that was no longer hers.

Heading back downstairs, she found the bodies stacked neatly in a pile next to the front door, the severed head resting disturbingly on the table. Large smeared bloodstains showed where the bodies had been dragged, down the stairs, out of Antario's room, across the main floor. It would require a thorough cleaning. Antario paced rapidly up and down in front of the door, dressed in his fine hooded robes of deep blue and green, a pack smaller than Kara's slung over his left shoulder. He stopped abruptly upon catching sight of her.

"Where's Torbjorn?" she asked, noticing their now ex-landlord's disappearance.

"He has taken it upon himself to inform the Jarl immediately," he replied. "When I repeated your comment that the Jarl is most likely asleep at such an hour, he stubbornly promised to raise the steward from his bed. So, we must leave immediately."

"Alright, let's go," said Kara, and the two stepped out into the dark night and whistling winds of Windhelm.

* * *

There was no trouble from the guards on duty at the gate, although their exit would no doubt be reported. The pair did not speak until across the bridge and making tracks towards Whiterun.

Kara, having now folded her long pale blonde hair up into a loose bun and slipped on her helmet, cast a sideways look at Antario, who had a deep frown etched across his face.

"Would you rather I hadn't told Torbjorn where we going?" she asked.

Antario smiled bitterly. "Indeed," he said. "But nothing can be done about it now, we must make all speed to Whiterun." His pace sped up, and Kara broke her stride to match it, the weight of her armour making itself known.

"Why are we going to Whiterun?" she asked between breaths.

"You informed me that Whiterun was the residence of the Dragonborn," Antario replied.

"Yes, he has a house there. It's common knowledge," she said.

"Well," he went on, "I believe the Dragonborn is the best chance we have of stopping the catastrophe that is soon to be unleased upon the province of Skyrim."


	26. The Night is Dark and Full of Terrors

"Why couldn't we just have stopped in Riverwood? It's got be after midnight." Falin's voice was tense and her hands were restless. The caravan, led by its single stubborn horse, was ambling its way on the road between Riverwood and Whiterun, its cover down, its occupants open to the night, none of them able to sleep. A lantern rested in the back of the wagon, another rested next to the driver.

"This one thought it best," replied Ri'saad, his paws clenched tightly around the reins, "To put as much distance between ourselves and Falkreath after that catastrophe of a deal." This was a reasonable desire. The caravan had stopped at the wooded town in the south of Skyrim, but one of the locals, an obnoxious Nord by the name of Bolund, had accused them of being spies for the Dominion. As a caravan composed of three Khajiits, an Argonian and a Bosmer amongst a town full of angry Nords, they had wisely decided to take their leave.

Kureeth, Falin's Argonian husband, reached back from his place beside Ri'saad to rest a hand gently on her shoulder. They were an odd couple, and it was unlikely that the natives of their respective homelands would have approved of an Argonian-Bosmer marriage, but in Skyrim, they'd found a place for themselves, helping to guard Ri'saad's caravan as it travelled the roads of the cold province.

Lifting his large hand off his wife's shoulder, Kureeth peered out into the blackness, suspicious of every noise and movement.

"Could someone pass me my gauntlets?" he asked, in one sentence exceeding the amount of words he had spoken over the past two days. Kureeth was a very quiet Argonian. His wife did enough talking for both of them, she always said when the subject came up.

Khayla, the Khajiit swordswoman, passed Kureeth his gauntlets, checking after doing so that her sword was clear in her scabbard. Giving into temptation, she drew the weapon and rested in on her knees. Kureeth slipped on the battered steel gauntlets he used in combat, combining with his cheap studded armour and iron boots to provide enough protection for his preferred fighting style: unarmed combat.

Ri'saad noticed the nervousness of his companions, and tried to adopt a reassuring tone, not unlike the one he used to convince unsure customers. "No need to worry," he said. "We shall all soon be safely in Whiterun, nothing to worry about." But he did not sound like he was even convincing himself.

Atahbah, the third Khajiit and experienced merchant, wrung her hands. "What is this feeling?" she asked. "Can anyone see anything?"

Nobody spoke. Kureeth narrowed his eyes, moving his shoulders around in their sockets, preparing for action. He repeatedly clenched and unclenched his fists, scanning the surrounds, looking for anything that could signal trouble. To their right flowed the White River, and as they drew alongside the first waterfall, there was a roar like nothing any of them had heard before.

It was almost human-sounding, but there was a twisted and evil nature to it that sent shivers down all their spines. The horse drawing the wagon ground to a halt, refusing to go any further, shivering where it stood. Kureeth saw that its stout body was thick with sweat. Ri'saad flailed violent with the reins, but the stubborn animal was unmoving. Frozen with fear, Kureeth thought.

He turned again in his seat, addressing Khayla. "Can you see anything?" he asked, deferring to her racially advanced night vision. Atahbah sat with her head in her hands, praying softly to Azura. Falin removed her hood, revealing her small pointed ears and soft blonde hair, cut short in a messy manner.

Khayla's eyes narrowed, looking across the river, scanning the banks for any sign of movement.

"No, there's nothing," she said. "Wait! Something… what in Azurah's name?"

Atahbah's prayers became louder and more feverish. "Lady Azurah, shield us from the terrors of the night, see us safely through to dawn. Lady Azurah…"

She never got to finish her prayer, as she made the mistake of looking up, catching sight of the shapes moving straight towards them. Kureeth opened the lantern door and stuck the end of a torch in the opening, it caught alight immediately. Leaping from his seat to the road, he held the torch out in his left hand, the additional light finally allowing him to make out what was approaching them.

With another unearthly roar, a dremora ran into the circle on light, his spiked armour shining in the sudden brightness, sweeping his two-handed daedric sword over his head. On either side of the demon loped several hounds, with fur blacker than the night outside the circle, and deep blood-red eyes.

Kureeth didn't hesitate, no matter how much every instinct within him screamed at him to run. He would stand firm. He would guard the caravan. "Protection!" he yelled, going into a low fighting stance.

Falin snapped her mouth shut from its shocked gaping and cast an Ironflesh spell, altering her husband's skin to a harder state more resistant to attacks.

One of the hounds reached Kureeth first. It leaped at him, but he kicked it in the face, knocking it to the ground. The same boot came down with great force, crushing the beast's skull. Looking up, he saw the dremora was upon him. He swayed to the left, the demon's overhead swipe going wide. To the side he saw Khayla leaping from the caravan, her sword keeping two other hounds at bay, stopping them from attacking the other members of the caravan.

The dremora swung again, a sideways slash that would have cleaved through Kureeth's armour if he hadn't ducked, plunging the end of the torch into the dremora's face as he rose, following it up with a heavy right jab, staggering his foe.

Kureeth edged back, wary that his armour would not withstand a direct hit from the demon's sword. Daring a glance to the side, he saw Falin helping Khayla, paralysing one hound with a spell, allowing the Khajiit to plunge her sword through its head, only to have the other leap at her, latching onto her arm.

Knowing that the dremora would have swung again, he dive-rolled to his left, but he was too slow. The daedric blade bit deep into his right side, cutting through both armour and spell. He fell to the dirt, dropping the torch, its light flickering. Looking up, he saw the dremora reverse its grip on its sword, looking to plunge it through his chest.

He rolled to the side, gritting his teeth at the pain, the dremora's sword biting into the earth instead of his flesh. Taking his slim moment of opportunity, Kureeth came to his feet, delivering a vicious left hook, fuelled by all his painful rage, which, to everyone's surprise, floored the demon. He wrenched the sword from the ground and slammed the point into the foul creature's throat. It let out a final roar that echoed around the caravan even as the demon dissipated into ash, leaving Kureeth holding the sword.

His boots scattering the remains of his vanquished foe, he strode to where Khayla was holding off the final hound. He raised the sword above his head, but before he could deliver the blow, he was robbed of the kill as a knife appeared in the wolf's eye. The beast slumped, dissipating just as the dremora had. Kureeth lowered the sword, its point touching the earth.

"Apologies, Master Kureeth," said Ri'saad, a matching knife in his paw. "This one was waiting for the perfect opening, and that was it." The Khajiit merchant peered out into the darkness. "That would seem to be all of them. Is anyone injured?"

In response, Kureeth staggered, feeling the depth of his wound in sharp repeated jabs of pain. The jabs quickened, growing faster and faster, driving him to his knees. The jabs became so fast they melded into one, an everlasting and overreaching canopy of pain that blotted out all else. The demonic sword slipped from his grip, and he went to collapse in the dirt, but was stopped from his fall by several steady hands.

Looking up through blurring vision, he saw Falin and Khayla grasping him securely, attempting to lift him up into the back of the wagon. Atahbah leapt down to lend her aid. He heard Falin's voice, alternating between soft and loud.

"Come on, stay with me. _Ri'saad! Get that horse moving, we need to get to Whiterun now!_ Come on, that's it, up we go. You'll be fine. _What are you waiting for? Let's go!_" Feeling himself at ease as the sound of his wife's voice swept over him, Kureeth was hoisted up into the back of the wagon, slumping down with a thump that he was surprised sent no sudden jolt of pain. The caravan started to move and above him he saw Falin moving her hands in rapid motions, a calm glowing light forming between them, a healing spell being constructed.

As he felt the spell's warmth envelop him, Kureeth slipped off into a dreamless sleep, the caravan approaching the city of Whiterun.


	27. A Midnight Visitor

Vash pulled open the main doors of the College as Gondain was rounding the statue in the courtyard. Seeing his friend, the Dragonborn doused his torch in the snow, leaving the handle sticking upwards in the drift. Taking off his helmet, he stepped inside, stamping the snow from his boots. He was dressed in the same ebony armour that he'd left in, but it now showed signs of his great journey. The once bright cuirass was now scuffed and scratched, and the boots bore dark stains of deep green-brown colour that came up well above the knees.

The two shook hands, Dragonborn and Arch-Mage. Vash was unable to keep from smiling.

"Welcome back," he said. He pointed upstairs and Gondain nodded, the two beginning to climb the stairs to Vash's chambers.

"Thanks," said the returning traveller, his voice weary, taking the stairs slowly. "How long has it been?"

Vash shrugged nonchalantly, pretending he didn't know exactly how long it had been. "Almost eight months, I think."

"Damn," Gondain sighed. "Never go to Black Marsh," he added.

"I take it that is why your boots are in the state they are?" asked Vash.

As they entered the Arch-Mage's quarters, Gondain looked down at himself, seemingly for the first time in a long while. "Yeah. Can't really recommend the place, as a whole. Or Elsweyr, for that matter." The two sat opposite each other at the small round table where Vash frequently took his meals, currently a mess of scrolls, books, and scribbled notes. Gondain leaned his familiar Dwemer shield against the wall and unbuckled his sword. It was one Vash had not seen before, a departure from his old daedric blade, this time a curved scimitar in the style of the warriors of Hammerfell.

Gondain eyed the chaos, looking around the room. "You've been busy, then," he said. "Noticed some changes in the town too, on my way up."

Vash felt pride seep into him again, he felt good about what he'd achieved for the College and for Winterhold. "Yes, there's a stable now, a proper guard barracks, houses are going up. We even fixed up the bridge. The Emperor's funds are being put to good use."

"Sure, I noticed the bridge on my way over," Gondain replied. "You wouldn't want any prospective students falling to their deaths."

Vash laughed shortly, reaching his hand back to scratch his scalp. He was concerned by his friend's appearance; his dark brown hair had grown, bound into a loose ponytail that looked like it had been that way for quite some time. His beard had lengthened too, though it was still not quite as long as Vash's, which spread its greying bristles down his chest, despite the top of his head remaining hairless.

"No," Vash agreed. "We wouldn't want that." He broached the topic that had been bothering him. "I would like some more students though; both Brelyna and J'zargo are so advanced that we certainly cannot call them students anymore."

Gondain shrugged. "If I run into any budding mages, I'll send them your way," he said. "But you're making quite a name for yourself here, I'm sure they'll come to you."

Vash suddenly noticed an absence he was ashamed for not noticing earlier. "Where's Dar'epha?" he asked.

"I left her in Riften after we crossed the border, she had some Guild business to attend to. She'll be here in the morning."

Vash leaned across the table, his elbows crumpling the papers that lay there. "Where exactly did you go?" he asked.

Gondain leaned back, casting his gaze up towards the high ceiling of the chambers, preparing himself for the tale. "All over the place, really. After we left you, we headed out into Hammerfell. Spent quite a while in Sentinel, talking to their King, sparring with their soldiers."

"Did you get what you wanted?" asked Vash.

"I… I tried. By the Nine, nobody has tried as hard as I have." Gondain's voice was intensely weary, with a tint of bitterness. Travel had not seemed to have improved his worldview. "But everyone's got their own interests. To cut it short, Hammerfell will support the Empire if there is an invasion, but they not will rejoin under any circumstances. They seem to be enjoying their independence, I don't know. I'm no longer sure I care."

Vash frowned. "What do you mean? You set out to strengthen the Empire against the Aldmeri Dominion, would you… rather be doing something else? Go back into retirement?" he asked.

Gondain waved a hand, attempting to dispel his previous comment. "I don't know, it's just an uphill battle, is all. You show people the truth in black and white, the danger that is about to reach out and grab them, and they still refuse to act. It's no wonder the Empire is in such a terrible state."

He paused, sighing again. Vash stayed silent, trying to understand where the Dragonborn's drive had gone. Gondain continued his story.

"Anyway, we left Sentinel, heading south." He stopped abruptly. "Although, the Redguard King did give me this." He reached backwards, retrieving his scimitar from where it had been leaning against the wall. Staying seated, he gave it a few swings to demonstrate. "It's very fast, almost weightless."

"What happened to your other sword?" asked Vash. "The daedric one?"

Gondain snorted. "Buried somewhere under the mires of Black Marsh. Made it myself too, won't be seeing it again in this lifetime." He gave the scimitar a few more swings, angrier this time.

"So," interjected Vash, "What happened after you left Sentinel?"

Gondain rested the sword on the table, and continued. "Right. We headed south, into Cyrodiil. We visited a bunch of towns. Anvil, Kvatch, Skingrad, Bravil. We set you a letter from Bravil, did you get it?"

Vash smiled. "Yes, I did."

"Good, we were wondering whether that would reach you. Well, we decided not to go into Valenwood, too much of a Thalmor presence. Instead, we headed down into Elsweyr, which is about as wild as you would imagine. Turns out they also have a large Thalmor presence. We spent most of our time there running and hiding from elves. Dar'epha could pass for a native, which would have helped if it wasn't ruined everytime she opened her mouth, no one believed for an instant that accent originated in Elsweyr."

Vash chuckled at this. It was true, Dar'epha's accent, birthed in Cyrodiil, hardened in Skyrim, dragged into the gutter by the Thieves Guild, would never pass for the respectful tones of a Elsweyr native.

"I was hoping to speak to the Mane," Gondain went on, "But there was no such luck. There's as much dissent among the Dominion as there is in the Empire though, so that's… something, I guess. We got tired of all that running and hiding pretty quickly, so we decided to head over to Black Marsh. We stopped in Leyawiin for a while first, though. The local Thieves Guild seems pretty prosperous down there."

He paused again, scratching his beard fiercely. "So then we headed into Black Marsh. Pretty much everyone we met advised against it, even the Argonians. Even Dar'epha, for that matter. But I insisted, and she came with me, of course. The first city we saw, and it was one of the few you could really call a city by our standards, was Gideon. There were remnants of Imperial buildings there, we explored the ruins. You would have enjoyed it, Vash. There was such history in the place."

Here Vash smiled again. To travel unimpeded as Gondain did, that would be a dream to strive for. But he had responsibilities now, he thought, and he would not shirk from them. At least not until there was another suitable candidate for Arch-Mage.

Gondain went on. "From there, it got considerably worse. You know, it's a wonder the place was ever a part of the Empire. The roads are untraversable, the language is impossible for non-Argonians to speak, the very land is hostile towards travellers. By the time we'd gotten to a place called Helstrom, we'd given up on seeking some sort of authority to get aid from. The place seems to govern itself, and the Hist don't talk to the likes of us. We headed north, wading through swamps and fighting all types of scaled horrors. It was somewhere north of Helstrom that I lost my sword, fighting beasts the locals call Naga, black scaled creatures with dripping fangs that hunt in packs."

He shook his head, as if such an action would banish the memory, erase it from his mind. His gaze came down from the ceiling to meet Vash's for the first time since his tale had entered the swamps.

"You know we didn't see a single human or Mer the whole time we were in that damned place? I can understand why now."

Vash nodded. "I imagine the memory of Knahaten Flu still lingers," he said, trying to take in all the new information in as much of an orderly mental fashion that he could.

"Yeah," said Gondain, not ignorant of his Tamrielic history. "Well, we didn't see any evidence of it. Like I said, we headed north, to Stormhold, and into Morrowind. We were able to find some Argonian authorities there, but they were only concerned with inflicting revenge on the Dunmer for all the years of slave-trading. Fools."

Vash kept silent. He was sure the Dragonborn was well aware of his own previous revenge-fuelled quests.

"It's a shame," Gondain continued, "I rather liked Morrowind, broken though it is. Dar'epha hated it though," he added, breaking into a grin. "Complained constantly of the ash getting into her fur."

He lapsed into silence, staring off into space with a blank expression.

Vash tried to gently press him. "Did you come straight back from Morrowind?" he asked softly.

"No," answered Gondain. "We went back into Cyrodiil, paid a visit to the Emperor in the Imperial City. Informed him of our progress, or lack of it. There's not a lot he can do, really. The Empire is falling apart, even he can see that. The Thalmor are... not evil, but certainly despicable. But they do not represent the views of all of the Dominion, we learnt that much. I don't know, take them out, show them to be weak, perhaps they'll crumble, perhaps the Dominion will fall apart and the threat will go away. Wishful thinking, I suppose."

Vash cleared his throat. "I should probably tell you," he said, "That there have been several racially provoked attacks recently. It should be anti-Thalmor sentiment, and they are certainly getting the worst of it, but the Nords are not very specific, and many are feeling the violence, Altmer especially, but Bosmer and Khajiit too."

Gondain sighed again, slumping lower in his chair. He ran his still-gauntleted hand across his forehead. "Any deaths?" he asked.

"No," replied Vash. "But I believe that it's only a matter of time before there are."

"Fuck!" exclaimed the Dragonborn, a rarity for him, Vash had observed. "This damned province, this damned Empire, this whole damned fucking landmass! A bunch of idiots writhing around in their own seeping hatred, so bound by past ignorance they can't see a thing. We're all the same, Vash, you know that better than anyone."

Vash shrugged. "The racism does not seem to have spread to Winterhold; we have that to be thankful for. The population here is more diverse, it seems."

Gondain nodded in agreement. "Thanks to you and the College, I think," he said.

Vash was unwilling to take the credit. "I think the Dunmer history of the College has a lot to do with it."

This time it was Gondain that shrugged. "Whatever. You're probably still the best Arch-Mage this place has seen in a long time." He rose abruptly, stretching his arms up above him and yawning. "I think I should call it a night. Haven't slept since Bruma. We can talk more in the morning, when Dar'epha gets here."

Vash rose too. "There are spare beds over in the Hall of Countenance. I'll take you over across the roof, come on."

* * *

Exiting onto the circular stone roof of the College, the two discovered the snow had ceased falling, leaving the night sky completely clear, Masser and Secunda lighting their way. They stopped and walked to the edge. Above them and to the north the auroras could be seen, but Gondain looked to the east. It was a vista unlike any other in Skyrim.

"Now that's a fantastic view," he said.

Vash agreed, crossing him arms against the cold. "Yes, it's hard to get any work done knowing this is right here. Come on."

They walked further around the roof, taking the top door into the Hall of Countenance. Descending the stairs, Vash gestured to a darkened room, lit only by the light that travelled up from the central well. "In here," he said. "I'll come wake you when Dar'epha gets here."

The Dragonborn yawned again, wider and longer this time. "Alright, thanks Vash. Goodnight." He shuffled into the room, his tiredness obvious in every sluggish movement.

"Goodnight," echoed Vash, turning to get back to his quarters, smiling at the return of his friend.


	28. A Search and a Warning

After a nervous trip by moonlight, Kara and Antario checked into the upstairs room of the Bannered Mare in Whiterun. Assuring her Altmer friend that he needed his sleep, Kara left him in the room, making him pull the end table in front of the door to prevent unwanted visitors.

Leaving her armour in the room but carrying her sword in its scabbard still swung over her back, Kara set about trying to find the Dragonborn. Her clothes were simple, a faded shade of blue, with loose leggings. She refused to wear skirts. Her pale blonde hair hung loose, running down well past her shoulders. On the journey Antario had revealed what was going on, and she had been inclined to agree with him; they would need the greatest fighter in Skyrim.

The first person she asked was the barmaid, a Redguard by the name of Saadia, just finishing up her shift as the dawn started to rise over the city. Yawning heavily, she responded well to Kara's enquiries.

"The Dragonborn? Sure, he lives in Whiterun," Saadia explained conversationally. "He used to come in here pretty regularly, but nobody's seen him in months. Don't even know if he's in Skyrim, he did used to vanish for long stretches at a time."

The woman could tell that Kara was disheartened. "You might try Belethor, over at his general goods store. Seedy little man, but he knows what's going on. Used to do business with Gondain fairly often too."

"Gondain?" Kara asked.

"That's his name. You didn't think his parents named him Dragonborn when he was birthed, did you?" Saadia smiled.

Kara took a moment to readjust her perceptions of the man. It was hard to think of him as just a man, with an ordinary name, living in an ordinary town. The legends and songs made him out to be almost a god, an unkillable warrior who could solve any problems that arose. "You know him well, then?" she asked.

"This is Whiterun," replied Saadia. "We all know the Dragonborn well, this is his town. It was him that defended the walls from the Stormcloaks, him that captured the dragon in the castle, him that first discovered his powers within sight of these walls. This is his town." She smiled proudly. Despite not being born in Skyrim, she seemed to have acclimatised completely to Nord sensibilities.

"Right," said Kara. "Thanks." She moved away, exiting the inn into the pale light of dawn, the sun gently edging its way over the horizon behind her, the shadows still long, the marketplace still quiet. A single guard passed through, his hand on the hilt of his sword, eyeing up Kara and her weapon, but not stopping.

Kara approached the well, dropping the bucket down to fill it, turning rapidly on the winch to raise it. She drank deeply from the cold, fresh water, leaving the bucket on the edge for the next thirst-driven person.

Belethor's store was closed, it was still too early for anything to be open. His assistant Sigurd, however, was chopping wood around the side of the building and seemed happy just to have someone to talk to.

"Belethor treats me like dirt," he complained. "All I do is chop wood and sweep the floors, I know I could sell things if he gave me a chance! Man's a letch, too," he mumbled in addition.

Kara stood in silence at these remarks. She was neither interested in nor concerned with Sigurd's situation. "That's fascinating," she said. "But I asked about the Dragonborn. Do you know where I might find him?"

Sigurd attempted to shrug, but the effect was lost somewhat as his axe thudded down into another log. He struggled to remove it, but was unable to, working it back and forth, trying to get it free. After not very long, he gave up, leaving it embedded there. He turned, gesturing to the next house along, closer to the gate.

"He lives right there," he said.

Kara leaned forward, planting her boot on the log, and extracting the axe with both hands, passing it back to Sigurd silently.

"Th- thanks," he said.

She turned away, looking towards the small, two-storey house that the Dragonborn (Gondain, she reminded herself) called home. In a few long strides, she was at the door, her fist pounding on the wood. There was no answer.

The guard, on another rotation, noticed her interest.

"I wouldn't bother," he said through his helmet, his hand still resting on the hilt of his sword. "He ain't been in for months."

"Is he even in Skyrim?" Kara asked despondently. Antario would be so disappointed. If they couldn't find the Dragonborn, they'd have to seek help elsewhere, or else deal with it themselves.

"Oh, sure," the guard replied. "Tabur was on patrol out by the meadery last night, said 'e passed right through, headin' north. Didn't get no chance to speak with him, though."

"Right," said Kara. "Thanks." Well, that was something, she thought. At least the Dragonborn was still in Skyrim. Antario would probably want to know right away, but she decided to let him keep sleeping for a while longer. The news, such as it was, would keep.

"Not a problem," replied the guard. He hesitated, his face hidden but clearly deliberating his next comment. "Don't go swinging that sword around in the city, alright?"

Kara smiled slightly. "Of course not," she said. "Wouldn't dream of it."

* * *

Day having broken, Falin exited the Temple of Kynareth with Atahbah behind her. The Bosmer's face must have given away her worry, for her Khajiit friend laid her paw on her shoulder.

"He'll be fine," she said. "The priestess knows what she is doing."

Falin let out a sigh. "Yeah, I'm sure you're right," she said. "He's tough, but Daedra? That was like nothing I've ever seen before. I think we're out of our depth."

Atahbah shrugged. "He did save us all," she said simply. And she was right, without Kureeth it was unlikely any of the caravan would be where they were now. The Argonian in question was resting in the temple behind them, along with Khayla, the demonic hound having inflicted a deep wound on her arm when it latched onto her. Ri'saad had stayed behind at the stables, minding the wagon.

Falin nodded. "Sure, he did extraordinarily well. But he's never been hurt this bad before, you know? I'm just worried is all. I'm sure you're right, I'm sure he'll be fine." She pulled her hood back over her pointed ears and gazed up at the Gildergreen, its boughs spreading wide above them. Such beauty in such a dark world gave her some hope.

Atahbah cleared her throat, interrupting Falin's reverie.

"We should return to the caravan, perhaps we can still do some business today," she said.

Falin looked up the hill towards Dragonsreach. "You go," she said. "The Jarl needs to know there are Daedra roaming his lands. I'll see you later." She turned away, seeking a distraction. She raced up the stairs to the Cloud District two at a time, feeling the blood pump in her ears. She pulled her hood back as a gesture of transparency as she approached the large double-doors that led into the main hall.

The guard posted there stepped neatly in front of her, barring her way.

"What is your business in Dragonsreach?" he asked, placing his fists firmly on his hips, his helmet making his expression unassessable.

"I need to speak with the Jarl," Falin said, breathing heavily from her run up the stairs. "It's urgent, lives could be in danger. Lives have _already_ been in danger."

The guard was silent for a moment, then stepped aside, pushing open the right side door for her. "Don't go causing any trouble now," he added. Falin gave him a nod and a smile, and entered Dragonsreach.

Striding quickly up the long cavernous hall, Falin approached the Jarl, who seated in his throne, eating a pie. She was stopped by an armoured Dunmer woman with red hair and a longsword at her hip.

"The Jarl is not to be disturbed," the woman said. "Come back later."

Swallowing heavily, the Jarl (whose name Falin now remembered was Balgruuf) interrupted. "It's alright, Irileth, let her through. I can eat and listen at the same time."

Irileth moved aside with no visible response, taking her place on Balgruuf's left. Falin stood at the base of the stairs that led up to the throne, looking up at the Jarl. She cleared her throat, for once unsure of her words.

"What seems to be the problem?" the Jarl asked.

Diving in, Falin began her tale. "My lord, my husband and I handle security for one of the Khajiiti caravans that travel between the cities of this province."

The Jarl interrupted her. "You work for Ri'saad? Canny old thing, isn't he?"

Falin managed a smile. "Indeed, my lord. However, on the road south of here last night our caravan was attacked. By daedra."

There was silence in the hall for a moment. The Jarl calmly wiped his mouth, handing off his plate to his steward. His expression was one of tired worry. "Did your party sustain any injuries?" he asked.

Falin was surprised at his concern. "Yes, my…" she tried to keep the catch out of her voice, "husband was hurt badly, he's resting up in the Temple of Kynareth."

The Jarl nodded. "Good. Danica knows what she's doing, your husband's in good hands. I'm sure he'll be recovered soon enough."

"Th-thank you, my lord," Falin stammered.

"But this is most serious situation," the Jarl intoned, rising from his throne. "This is not the first report we've had of such attacks. A hunter from Riverwood encountered what he could only describe as demonic wolves. And we've received word that Jarl Siddgeir in Falkreath has been getting similar reports, although vague."

He fell silent, standing perfectly still and staring up into the ceiling cavity, the burden of his office seeming to weigh him down such that he was unable to move. Nobody in the hall made a sound. Eventually, he sighed deeply, returning his gaze to Falin.

"I am unable to spare any guards to patrol the roads, or investigate further. And my steward repeatedly reminds me that little can be spared from the coffers. However, given the seriousness of these attacks, I will meet with Jarl Siddgeir and we shall see if something can be done. I will not sit idly by while the people of my hold are ravaged by daedric forces."

Falin bowed. "Thank you, my lord," she said. It was more than she had hoped for, but Balgruuf had a reputation of a man not prone to inaction.

Balgruuf waved away her thanks with a hand. "You did well to bring it to my attention so quickly." He descended the stairs, extending his hand for her to shake. She did so. "Whatever your allegiances," he added, "Many will see every Bosmer as a part of the Dominion, and treat you as their enemy. Tread carefully."

"Thank you, my lord," Falin repeated.

The Jarl nodded, moving away and to the right, beckoning to his steward to follow, the balding man falling into step behind him. "Send a letter to Siddgeir right away," his voice echoed. "Friendly, but firm. Insist that we meet here. I'll be damned if I break bread in the hall of that milk-drinker."

Falin turned away, wishing she'd been able to get more words out. The Jarl had a commanding presence. She retraced her steps, thanking the guard at the door as she exited. She stood at the top of the stairs, overlooking the town, now bustling as the morning got underway. She headed quickly towards the Temple of Kynareth. Perhaps Kureeth would have awoken.


	29. Distractions

_~With this update, my buffer has officially run out. Which means future updates will probably be sporadic, trying to work in writing inbetween uni work and general life things. My apologies, I'll do my best to still get chapters up. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

Vash was awoken that morning by a knocking at his door that refused to cease. Throwing himself out of bed and hurling on his robes, he realised as he approached the door that the knocking was in fact in the tune of the 'The Age of Aggression.'

He yanked it open to reveal Dar'epha, dressed in full Guild armour and smiling widely.

"Greetings, Arch-Mage!" she announced loudly. Vash winced, and she smiled wider.

"By Stendarr's wrath, what time do you call this?" he asked. He let her in and closed the door, looking up towards the window far above in his ceiling. Only the faintest glimmer of light seeped down. He took a lantern off a shelf and lit it with a small ball of flame, bringing the room into a fuller light.

"No need to invoke the god of mercy," the Khajiit said, bouncing on her heels. "Dawn should be breaking any moment."

Vash groaned. Fumbling around, he picked up a goblet, with one hand conjuring a small ball of ice that he dropped into it. With the same hand he made the tiniest wisp of a flame, moving it swiftly around the edges of the goblet. When he dismissed it, the goblet was filled with water, which he drank deeply.

"Neat trick," said Dar'epha, her eyebrows raised.

"Do you want me to do some for you?" he asked.

"Nah, it's fine. Did Gondain get in?"

"Yeah," he replied, clearing his throat. "He's sleeping over in the Hall of Countenance. Want me to go wake him?"

Dar'epha waved a paw. "No, let him sleep a bit longer. He needs it." She changed the subject quickly. "I noticed the town looked significantly less shitty on the way up."

Vash laughed, unable to take offence, at least from her. "Thanks," he said. "I do my best."

She slid her backside onto the table, swinging her legs wildly, full of energy. "Hey, I stopped for a bit in Windhelm on the way here, there was some sort of big fight there last night."

He set his goblet down, trying to keep up with her leaps and bounds of thought. "Yes?" he asked. "What happened?"

"Couldn't get a lot of details," she said, speaking quickly. "But it seems that three Thalmor were killed in a house, trying to arrest someone. One of them was decapitated, the guards dropped the head as they were carrying the bodies out. Had to chase it down all the stairs into the Grey Quarter." She chuckled heartily.

Vash was unmoved. "I told Gondain already," he said. "There's been a huge backlash against the Dominion all over Skyrim, especially in the bigger cities. Even those who have nothing to do with them are feeling the pain, just because of their race."

Dar'epha's face fell. "I can't imagine the Dominion taking that very well," she said.

Vash raised his eyebrows. "You're talking about revenge?"

She shrugged. "I wouldn't put it past them. Have there been other attacks?"

"Yes, but this one is the first to end in deaths."

They both fell into silence, considering the situation. Eventually, Dar'epha spoke. "It is good to see you, you know," she said. "We missed you on our trip."

"It's good to see you too," echoed Vash. "Gondain gave me a brief overview last night."

"He did? Did he mention how fucking awful Black Marsh was?" she asked.

Vash smiled. "It was the main feature of his story."

"Did he tell you he thinks the Thalmor are up to something?"

Vash's smile disappeared. "No. But given what's been happening, it seems likely."

"You wanna help stop them?" she asked.

"Of course," he replied.

"Good. Then let's go wake up Gondain."

* * *

Breakfast was a leisurely affair. Vash pulled his little round table out from the wall, clearing away the piles of scrolls and books, replacing them with a large bowl of horker and vegetable stew, an apple each, and a jug full of cold water, the final item being magicked up by the Arch-Mage using the method he'd previously demonstrated in front of Dar'epha.

Gondain was unsatisfied; it had been a while since he'd had a chance to cook. It was a little-known fact about the Dragonborn that he thoroughly enjoyed cooking, and was indeed very good at it. He surveyed in silence the garden that sat in the centre of the quarters. Dar'epha was already seated, spooning out large quantities into her bowl.

"Aha!" he exclaimed finally, turning around clutching a handful of snowberries. He strode swiftly back to the table and crunched the berries in his fist, letting the juice and pieces fall into the bowl of stew. Vash and Gondain then sat, dishing out their own portions in turn.

The Dragonborn savoured his first mouthful, sighing appreciatively. "Excellent work, Vash," he said. "But you should've woken me up earlier, I would have been more than happy to lend a hand."

Vash shrugged, hesitating with spoon in the air. "You looked like you needed your sleep," he said.

Gondain nodded in agreement around another mouthful of stew. There was silence for several minutes, the three friends enjoying the meal, none feeling the need to interrupt the air with their voices. Dar'epha finished first, lifting the bowl to her mouth to drink the last dregs of her fourth portion, and then biting into her apple noisily.

"So what's the plan?" she asked between bites of the cold fruit. She and Vash both looked at Gondain.

The Dragonborn calmly scooped out his bowl before answering, making sure there were no morsels remaining. "There isn't one, really," he replied eventually. "I thought we'd head the Whiterun, see what's happening. Someone's got to have an inkling of what the Thalmor are planning."

Vash wiped his mouth with his sleeve, picking up his cup. "We'll need to make a detour, I have some College business to deal with along the White River."

"That's fine," continued Gondain. "I don't think we're in any special hurry, hmm?

Dar'epha shook her head, stretching back in her chair, popping the apple core into her mouth, crunching down on the last dregs of her meal, spitting the seeds into her bowl with small repeated plinks.

* * *

It was some time before they set out. Vash was eager to demonstrate the improvements to Winterhold, so they took the carriage, instructing the driver, Markus, to take the long way to Whiterun, around past Windhelm and up the White River.

The rupture was further west than the letter had described, but still fell under the domain of the Jarl of Eastmarch. The wagon lurched to a halt, stopped by a bored-looking Imperial Legion soldier and a Windhelm guard.

"No passage down this road," the guard said to Markus. "You'll have to go another way."

Vash leapt lightly from the back of the wagon, the staff of Magnus in his right hand. He did a short bow. "I am the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold," he announced. "I am here to seal the breach."

The guard was taken aback, and the soldier became alert. Vash wished for the umpteenth time that his orcish appearance was not so obtuse. "My apologies, Arch-Mage," the guard said. "It's right this way, please follow me." Vash looked back at his companions; Dar'epha was dozing, her hood pulled low over her eyes, but Gondain returned Vash's glance.

"Need any help?" asked the Dragonborn, dressed only in simple travelling clothes but still ready to lend a hand.

"No, I'll be fine," Vash replied. "Thanks." He turned away, using the staff as a walking stick as he followed the guard down the road as it descended down slight hill, the White river on their right, coming in sight of a ford that led to a steep path on the other side. The guard stopped a fair distance away.

"It appeared right in the centre of the ford," he said, unwilling to go any further.

"Thank you," said Vash. "Shouldn't take too long," he smiled. The guard nodded thankfully and back away even further.

Vash approached the rupture, the sundering of the air becoming clear as he stepped off the road and between two trees onto the shore of the river. None at the College had a concrete theory as too why these ruptures were occurring. It had something to do with the Eye, that was certain, but beyond that they were fumbling in the dark. At least, Vash thought, he knew how to deal with them.

Sensing his presence, the 'anomalies', as he'd come to call them, ceased their aimless flittering about and came speedily towards him. Three this time, small greenish wisps that swam through the air, darting and dodging with great agility. Vash acted simultaneously, casting a bolt from the staff at one, while sending a jagged line of lightning at another with his left hand. The one hit with the lightning dissolved instantly, the one hit by the staff merely rolling back with the blow and continuing its advance.

The anomaly he hadn't hit was the first to reach him, but it bounced harmlessly off a ward he'd hastily conjured. Getting an idea, he pushed the ward away from him, cannoning the wisp across the river, slamming it into the bank, but seemingly unaffected by the physical attacks. The other wisp, now almost upon, he burnt up with a great gout of flame, it vanished with a whoosh of energy.

The final anomaly came zooming across the water at knee height, clearly angered by the attacks. Vash waited until the last moment, then used the butt of the staff to send it careening up into the blue sky, following it up with another burst of lightning, vaporising it. Finally, he charged up the staff, overloading it, and sent a huge burst of energy into the rupture itself. It shuddered, folding in upon itself, then dissipated, sending out a burst of force that would have thrown Vash off his feet if he had not been prepared for it.

Surveying the now quiet surrounds with satisfaction, Vash returned the way he'd come. The guard shook his hand and thanked him, ensuring him that the Jarl would send payment to the College in thanks. Telling him that it was no trouble, Vash clamboured back into the wagon, and they trundled on.

"Any trouble?" asked Gondain.

"None at all," smiled Vash, pleased with his work.

"What's that?" mumbled Dar'epha, still dozy. "Did we stop?"

"Yeah," said Gondain. "But we'll be in Whiterun very soon."

"Oh, good," said Dar'epha, scratching the scars on her nose, not opening her eyes. "Wake me when we get there."


	30. The Traitor

_~Would you look at that, a chapter. Because of the buffer, I hadn't written one of these for a while, it was nice getting back into it. Anyway, enjoy. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

The wagon dropped them out the front of the Whiterun Stables, the afternoon sun bearing down on them. The three companions disembarked, thanking Markus and strolling towards the town. Dar'epha yawned frequently, and Gondain kept shifting his pack in its place over his shoulder. Vash frowned and stopped, noticing another wagon the others had not.

"Wait," he said, and they did, looking at him expectantly. He stepped around the wagon, peering into the uncovered back. Inside he saw a dozing Khajiit he recognised as Ri'saad, from the few times over the past months that the trading caravan had visited Winterhold. The feline trader's eyes flicked open, meeting Vash's.

"Arch-Mage," said Ri'saad. "This one did not expect to see you in Whiterun." He rose from the back of the caravan, unsurprised at seeing the other two figures. "Dovahkiin. Dar'epha. This one should have expected that you three know each other. What brings you here?"

Dar'epha spoke first. "We're looking for the Thalmor. We think they're up to somethin'," she said.

"Are they not always?" asked Ri'saad. "When you go looking for trouble, see that it does not find you first. It has certainly found this one."

"What happened?" asked Vash. "And why aren't you at your stall in the city?"

Ri'saad spoke slowly, his voice thick and solemn. "We were attacked upon the road, a ways north of Riverwood."

Gondain frowned. "Bandits?" he asked. "I thought that route was relatively safe."

Vash shared the Dragonborn's confusion. "And I thought," he said, "That you could handle a few bandits. Kureeth and Falin seemed very competent."

"If only it had been bandits," spoke Ri'saad. "But it was daedra."

There was silence for a moment. "By the nine…" breathed Gondain eventually.

"Are you all okay?" asked Vash.

Ri'saad shrugged. "Better than some," he espoused. "Khayla took a bite to her arm, and Kureeth got a large wound to his side defending us from a dremora."

"A dremora?" injected Gondain. "I'd like to speak to this Kureeth."

"This one believes they are within the Temple of Kynareth," Ri'saad informed them. "If you should pass Atahbah, send her back here. There is still half a day of trading to be salvaged."

"No need," said Dar'epha. "There she is." She pointed up the road at the advancing Khajiiti figure passing under the first stone arch.

"Then this one shall bid you good day," bowed Ri'saad. "And proceed with the getting of the septims." He greeted Atahbah, and the two of them set about unloading various wares and items from the back of the wagon.

The three companions bid the trader farewell, and set off up the road towards the town.

"You know this Kureeth?" Gondain asked Vash as they walked.

"Yes," Vash replied. "He and his wife, Falin, help protect the caravan from bandits and so on. I've met them several times, when the caravan visits Winterhold. Falin's a Bosmer mage, and rather a good one. Kureeth… I think you'll like Kureeth. Giant of an Argonian, fights exclusively with his fists."

"He beat a dremora with just his fists!?" exclaimed Dar'epha. "Shit, that's impressive."

Gondain agreed. "Indeed. We'll ask him about the attack, if daedra are roaming the countryside, we need to stop them."

* * *

Kureeth had regained consciousness about an hour earlier, staring up at the roof beams of the Temple, not moving any part of his body. Eventually, he sat up, grunting softly, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. To his left sat Falin, dozing in a chair. He moved slowly, not wanting to startle her. He looked down at himself and saw that he was bare-chested, a large white bandage wrapped around his stomach, stained red on his right side. He explored it gently with his fingers, prodding the wound, withdrawing when the pain got too much.

His explorations of his wound must have made more noise than he thought, for Falin's eyes eased open, meeting his accompanied by a concerned smile.

"How are you feeling?" she asked.

He shrugged, seguing it into an experimental stretch of his arms. He felt no pain from those movements, indeed he felt rather well, given that he'd taken a hit from a dremora.

"How long?" he asked.

"A while," she replied. "It's past noon, I think. I dozed off for a little there. Try not to move about too much, the priestess said you needed to rest."

Kureeth grunted his disbelief. In the years they'd been together, Falin had become a master at reading her husband's various non-verbal communications and single-word responses. He dropped heavily off the side of the bed onto his feet, standing tall and rolling his shoulders. From across the room the priestess frowned at him, but he sent a glare her way, daring her to try and stop him. On the next bed over, he noticed Khayla, leafing through a tattered book.

"You're lookin' pretty well," she said, also swinging her legs out and dropping to the floor, tucking the book under one arm. She sported a white bandage too, wrapped around her left arm.

"I miss anything?" he asked.

Falin answered before Khayla could. "I spoke to the Jarl this morning about the attack. I think he might actually do something. What chance his guards will have against daedra, I don't know."

Not much, Kureeth thought.

Khayla coughed. "This one will head down to the caravan, perhaps help Ri'saad with setting up the stall," she said, exiting the Temple.

"My armour?" asked Kureeth when she'd gone.

"Just here," replied Falin, reaching behind her chair, placing the studded leather breastplate on the bed. "Huge gash in the side where the sword went in though, I don't know if that can be fixed."

Kureeth ran his fingers over the gap in his armour, remembering the daedric sword cutting through it like it wasn't even there, biting into his flesh. Perhaps he could try wearing heavier armour, he thought. But that would sacrifice the mobility so essential to his fighting style. If only he could find something more durable, but still light, maybe if—

It was at that moment that the Temple door opened again, and three mismatched figures entered. The first he recognised as Vash, the orc Arch-Mage of Winterhold, who was pulling the hood of his robes back, exposing his bare scalp. The second was a large Breton, dressed in brown travelling clothes, his hair and beard unkempt, a scimitar at his hip, who carried himself with the surest of confidence. The third was a lithe Khajiit, wearing armour Kureeth recognised as being of the Thieves Guild, with three pale scars running diagonally parallel across the bridge of her nose. Her eyes darted rapidly around the room and her paws twitched.

Vash approached, his companions in tow, shaking hands with both Kureeth and Falin, who rose from her chair.

"Kureeth, Falin, it's good to see you," smiled the Arch-Mage. "Allow me to introduce my friends, Dar'epha and Gondain." Kureeth nodded politely at everyone, he and Gondain both aware of them sizing up the other.

"Ri'saad informed us that you were attacked on the road," Vash went on. "I hope you are recovering well."

"You beat down a dremora," Gondain said, crossing his arms. "Impressive."

"We were wondering if you could tell us what happened," inquired Vash. "If the daedra are at large in Skyrim, we need to know as much as we can." The orc looked first at Kureeth, who remained silent, then at Falin, who launched into the tale. First she told of the bad dealings in Falkreath (an addition that Kureeth thought unnecessary), then of the dark wagon ride through Riverwood and beyond, how the eyes of their Khajiiti friends peered out into the night at the horrible sounds of the daedra, how Kureeth stood his ground and fought the dremora while the others fended off the hounds. Of how the sword had cleaved into Kureeth (and here her voice caught a little) and how they'd hauled him into the wagon and made fast tracks towards Whiterun.

There was a moment of silence after she'd finished. Kureeth stretched his arms again.

"Impressive," repeated Gondain. "To down a dremora with just your fists… you need to be able to take a hit better though, have you considered heavier armour?"

"It'd slow me down," replied Kureeth.

Gondain frowned, as if considering something. "What about dragonscale?" he asked. "Tough as they come, but light, still lets you move about."

Falin let out a short laugh. "Dragonscale? Where are we going to find a set of that? Let alone be able to afford it?"

Dar'epha smiled widely. "You don't know who he is, do you?" she asked. "He's the Dragonborn, he's got the biggest fuckin' stash of armour and weapons in Skyrim. You can bet there's some dragonscale in there."

Kureeth reassessed the Breton. A warrior who had defeated the World-Eater, who had ended the Civil War, would of course carry themselves with such confidence. The greatest warrior in Skyrim, the tales said. Right there with them in the Temple. Even Falin was speechless.

"Would you accept a gift?" asked the Dragonborn. "I believe that with a few alterations, my set of dragonscale armour could fit you quite nicely."

Kureeth frowned, he hadn't received a lot of gifts in his life. Falin elbowed him in the side.

"Of course we accept," she said. "Thank you, Dragonborn."

"No problem," said he. "And call me Gondain."

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was spent leisurely. Vash and Falin remained in the Temple, helping the priestess with the other wounded there. Vash, always ready to admit his own lack of ability as a healer, was impressed by Falin's talent with Restoration.

Gondain and Kureeth spent the time at Adrianne's forge, the Dragonborn helping her with the alterations to the dragonscale armour, talking with the Argonian about old battles and fighting strategies. Gondain did most of the talking, but on the matter of fighting Kureeth was ready with a few choice bits of advice, distilled into just a few words. The Dragonborn was reminded that there was always more he could learn.

Dar'epha disappeared for most of the afternoon. Guild business, she said when she reappeared for dinner at Breezehome that evening. Gondain had invited Kureeth and Falin to join them, and he was cooking up a vegetable stew and roasting a large leg of beef, the juices dripping into the firepit.

* * *

Gondain has just finished dishing up when there was a knock at the door. Dropping the ladle back into the bowl, he strode to the entrance, gesturing at the others that they should keep eating. Opening the door, he revealed the now darkened Whiterun and a blonde Nord woman, dressed in steel plate armour, with a helmet tucked under her arm and huge steel greatsword strapped to her back. The sword and the face jogged his memory.

"Kara?" he asked, remembering their last encounter.

"Dragonborn," she said in her gruff voice. "I just heard that you're back in town."

"What are you doing here?" he asked, surprised. He hadn't thought to ever see her again.

"Someone wants to speak to you," she replied, looking past him at the others inside. "Alone."

Dar'epha, listening with keen ears, gulped down her mouthful, hoping to interject. Gondain cut her off before she could speak.

"It's fine, keep on eating," he reassured her. He reached over and picked up his scimitar from where it had been leaning against the wall, buckling it to his belt. "Let's go." He closed the door behind him and stepped out with Kara. "Where are we going?" he asked. "And who are we speaking with?"

Kara made a non-committal noise. "You'll see," she said. She led him to the Bannered Mare, busy with the evening crowd. Gondain gave a wave to Saadia at the bar, and followed Kara through to the upstairs room. She opened the door and ushered him into the room, lit by a single lantern. On the edge of the bed sat a hooded figure, who rose as they entered, revealing his height. The figure pulled their hood back and revealed the pointed ears and long sharp features of an Altmer. Gondain's hand tightened on the hilt of his weapon. Kara had been a Stormcloak, sworn against the Empire that he had fought for. He'd thought she'd seen the error of her ways, but what if she hadn't? What if she'd gone to another group that were opposed to the Empire? What if she'd gone to the Thalmor?

"Thank you for coming, Dovahkiin," spoke the Altmer in a polished voice. "I can well understand your wariness but please, there is nobody for you to fear in this room. My name is Antario. Kara, you already know."

"What's an Altmer doing hiding in a dark room in Whiterun with an ex-Stormcloak?" Gondain enquired, not releasing his grip on his sword.

"If it will allay your concerns," said Antario, "I will first tell you this: I was once a member of the organisation known as the Thalmor, but no longer. I now operate free of their instruction, and indeed directly oppose their actions."

"Alright," breathed Gondain, not convinced. "But what do you want with me? And what's Kara doing with you?" he asked, looking back at where she stood with arms folded in front of the door.

"I had the good fortune to meet Kara in Windhelm, where we were both lodgers of a Master Torbjorn Shatter-Shield. She was convinced by my explanations of the dire situation, and agreed to accompany me." Antario's hands gestured lightly as he spoke, the wrists occasionally peeking out from the long sleeves of his fine blue and green robes.

Gondain grunted. "Torbjorn's a good man," he said. "You two wouldn't have had anything to do with those Thalmor murders in Windhelm the other night, would you?"

"Unfortunately, yes," replied Antario. "My once-colleagues are convinced that I need to be eliminated before I reveal what I know of their plans for Skyrim. Kara proved herself very useful."

"She must have improved since last I saw her then," Gondain grimaced. She threw him a violent look. "What do you know of their plans for Skyrim?" he asked.

"Disappointingly little," Antario explained. "We operated separately for the most part, receiving instructions by letter, dealing with our own assigned areas and objectives. However, I do know the Thalmor are planning several large operations within Skyrim. I heard tell of agents descending into Blackreach to set up something… I never discovered what before I was cut off."

Gondain shook his head. "I'm not hiking through Blackreach again for rumours and hearsay," he said. "You'll have to give me something more solid than that."

"I believe that I can help you there," Antario assured him. "There is a large Thalmor base located at Labyrinthian, whether they are delving into the ruins or merely running operations from there, I do not know. They may be doing something related to the daedric attacks that have been occurring. But if you seek answers, Labyrinthian would be a good place to start."

"Alright," agreed Gondain, only partially reassured. "But if this a trap, then—"

"I can assure you that it is not," interjected Antario.

"But if it is," Gondain went on, "Then I will be back to find you afterwards. You do not want the Dragonborn as an enemy, of _that_ I can assure you."

"We would much rather have you as an ally," spoke Antario. "We both seek to stop the Thalmor, our aims are the same, you should not position yourself against us."

Gondain sighed. "You're right," he said. "I apologise, I was rude. I've just come back from a whirlwind tour of most of Tamriel, there was precious little trust to found all over. Forgive me."

"Of course," Antario waved it away with a hand. "Your relations with Thalmor agents have not exactly been cordial in the past, it is natural you would suspect foul play."

Gondain smiled. "Not cordial, that's putting it lightly." He finally relaxed, removing his hand from his sword and easing his stance. "You took my advice, then?" he asked Kara.

Her smile was full of confidence. "Care for a rematch?" she dared him.

He laughed. "No, not now that we're working on the same team, hmm?"

* * *

After bidding Antario and Kara farewell, Gondain returned to Breezehome, finishing his stew which the others had kept warm, and informed them of what had transpired. Dar'epha was keen to go check out Labyrinthian the following morning, a sentiment Gondain and Vash agreed with. Falin and Kureeth expressed interest in accompanying them, Kureeth was clearly eager (although he did not say so) to try out his new dragonscale armour. Falin proposed they persuade Ri'saad to take them up in his wagon.

Gondain was glad that Angi had pressured him to convert the downstairs alchemy lab into an extra bedroom, with two spare beds. He put the double bed upstairs at Kureeth and Falin's disposal, directing Dar'epha to her usual room at the top of the stairs. Vash and the Dragonborn would share the downstairs room. They both laid awake for a time in the dark, thinking over the events of the day.

* * *

Ri'saad reluctantly agreed to take all of them up within range of Labyrinthian, leaving Atahbah and Khayla to manage the stall for the day on their own. Dar'epha rode beside Ri'saad, while Kureeth, Falin, Vash and Gondain rode in the back. They had scarcely passed the Western Watchtower when two riders on horseback came thundering up behind them.

It was Kara and Antario, who reined in beside the wagon, matching its pace.

"A very good morning to you all," greeted Antario with a smile.

"Didn't think you could leave without us, did you?" asked Kara.


	31. Chaos At Labyrinthian

Gondain called a halt well before the ascent up the hill towards Labyrinthian, instructing Ri'saad to halt the wagon just under the jutting trunk of a fallen tree that was propped up against the hill. Everyone except the Khajiiti driver climbed to the ground, Antario and Kara dismounting and tying their horses' reins to the tree trunk.

"This is close enough," ordered the Dragonborn. "They'll probably have guards posted, we're out of sight here."

"This one is reluctant to go much further anyway," grumbled Ri'saad.

"That's alright Ri'saad," Gondain assured him. "I won't ask you to take us any further. You can stay with the wagon, we'll go on foot from here." He turned to look at Dar'epha. She raised an eyebrow.

"Want me to have a look around first?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"If you wouldn't mind," he replied.

"Do you mind if I come with you?" asked Falin, moving to follow Dar'epha up the crest of the hill.

Dar'epha and Gondain exchanged glances. "I work better alone," the Khajiit thief said.

"I can handle myself," proposed Falin. "I'm good at Illusion magic, I can stay undetected just as well as you."

"I doubt it," responded Dar'epha, unstrapping her bow from her back and stringing it, holding it loosely in her left hand. "But come on, then."

Falin turned back to others. "If we get in trouble, I'll send a spark of red up into the sky," she said.

"Good idea," Gondain nodded. The Khajiit and the Bosmer scrambled up the crest of the hill, leaving the others to put on their armour in readiness. Gondain donned his ebony armour, Kureeth slowly pulled on his new dragonscale set. Kara was already wearing her steel plate, and Antario and Vash remained in their robes.

* * *

Dar'epha edged onwards, Falin close behind her. The orange-brown grass gave way to snow, and the pair began the descent into the pass that led to Labyrinthian, Dar'epha's eyes rapidly scanning all around them. Nothing else moved in the valley as the advanced.

"Can you see anything?" whispered Falin.

"No," replied Dar'epha curtly. The first stone arch loomed above them and they stopped hiding behind the middle pillar that jutted from the centre of the valley. Dar'epha peeked around the side, withdrawing instantly. "There's a guard on the wall," she said. "Take a look."

Falin chanced a peek. There was indeed a guard, dressed in elven armour, on the wall past the second arch, a formidable stone wall with an arched gateway through its centre. Possibly once it would have sported a thick unbreakable gate, but that was long gone. Instead the way into Labyrinthian was open to any who wanted to enter.

"You got a weapon?" asked Dar'epha, fixing an arrow to her bow. "Or do you just use magic?"

"You're going to kill him!?" exclaimed Falin. "We were just supposed to scout!"

Dar'epha sighed. "You're right. I should do this up close, less chance of his body falling and attracting attention."

"That's not what I said at all!" said Falin, her voice rising.

"Keep your voice down!" hissed Dar'epha. "And follow me, if you can stay quiet for long enough."

Gritting her teeth to the Khajiit's barbs, Falin followed her, neither of their paces making a sound upon the cold ground. The guard, obliviously looking back into ruins, did not see them. Behind the second pillar, they paused again.

"Stay here," breathed Dar'epha, her voice barely audible. "This isn't a job for the soft-hearted." Falin felt her temper rising, but kept quiet as she watched Dar'epha drop her bow and draw a glass dagger, then move to the left, leaping silently from rock to rock with ease, her paws finding purchase on the icy stones of the wall, clambouring to the top. Dropping to a low crouch, the Khajiit crept along the wall until she was behind the elven guard. Silently she reached up and drew her dagger across the elf's throat, gently lowering his body down. Turning to smile at Falin, she crept back along the wall and dropped lightly back down.

By the time she'd reached Falin, her smile had disappeared. "The Thalmor are here alright," she said. "Camped out around the centre barrow, in the ruins and a bunch of tents. I'm gonna go around, take out some from the other side. You'd better stay here, you'd just slow me down." She picked up her bow again, nocking an arrow to it.

"What?" exclaimed Falin. "You can't just kill them all!"

"Why not?" scoffed Dar'epha.

Falin tried an argument she'd convinced herself of many years ago. "We're better than them," she said. "If we go around just killing indiscriminately like they do, we become just as bad as they are."

Dar'epha shrugged. "If you want to get rid of evil, you have to get down into the shit where it lives," she said. "That's the sacrifice we make. Ask Gondain about the awful stuff he's done. He's not a hero, and I'm damn well not one either. We can do this one of two ways. Either you stay here and let me do my thing, or you send that signal and we do it the hard way. Doesn't matter what you choose, a lotta people are gonna get killed." There was silence. Dar'epha had surprised herself, she wasn't usually one for justifying her actions, or lecturing on morality. "Well?" she asked.

Falin was a picture of frustration. "Fine," she said, preparing a spell. She launched it, a red bulb of light rocketing into the sky, leaving a trail behind it. Dar'epha grinned wickedly.

"That's more like it," she said. Her grinned vanished as a yell came from the Thalmor camp. "Now they know we're here. Let's do this."

* * *

The Dragonborn was on the move as soon as he saw the signal. He yelled as he crested the hill, "Come on!" The others, Vash, Kureeth, Kara and Antario scrambled to follow him, but they were left far behind as Gondain spoke words of the Dovah: "_Wuld Nah Kest!"_ The Whirlwind Sprint carried him down the valley to the first arch and as he came out of it he moved into a sprint, seeing Dar'epha standing at the hole in the wall, loosing one arrow after another down into the ruins. Falin was nowhere in sight.

"Move!" he yelled at Dar'epha. Without looking around, she leapt to the right, letting the Dragonborn barrel through into the Thalmor charging up the stairs and around the lone column at the top. The first one Gondain slammed into the column, crushing their head with his shield. Then he drew his scimitar and moved around the column to the left, cutting savagely at neck-height, sending a gust of blood and a Thalmor head rolling down the stairs. More armoured soldiers advanced on his position, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Dar'epha move to higher ground to the left, raining arrows down on the camp below. The ferocity of his attack forced the few Thalmor on the stairs back down, knocking several off their feet in a chain reaction. Gondain laughed inside his helmet and advanced again.

From her position overlooking the ruins, rapidly sending arrows down into the camp, Dar'epha could see everything. Looking back up the hill, she saw the others finally coming to the fight. Kara had her steel plate armour on, her huge steel greatsword ready to cleave bodies in two. Indeed, upon her first contact with the enemy she did just that, her powerful strike ignoring armour and chopping straight through flesh. Vash had conjured a bound axe and was snaking fireballs into the enemy, having strengthened the durability of his skin with a spell. Kureeth seemed to be enjoying the mobility his new dragonscale armour offered him, dodging blows as often as he caught them, wrenching weapons from hands, plunging fists into faces, sweeping elves off their feet with his tail. From the looks on some of the Thalmor agents' faces, it was clear they recognised Antario, striding tall in his resplendent robes, wielding an elven sword and launching lightning bolts. He displayed no reluctance in fighting his old faction, noted Dar'epha approvingly, still not convinced of his trustworthiness.

More Thalmor emerged from tents and from the ruins, warriors in elven armour and mages in long black robes, hurriedly arming themselves against the attack, many recognising Gondain as well as Antario. The Dragonborn had been on the Thalmor's hit list for a very long time, they saw it as their chance to finally get rid of him. But their swords glanced off his armour, their spells dissolved on the ward that was attached to his shield, and his scimitar cut their necks open, found holes in their armour, and drove through skin and organs.

Falin appeared out of thin air, a spell ready. A moment later, the Thalmor's horses, huddled on the far side of the barrow, suddenly erupted into chaos, stampeding through the camp, trampling many high elves beneath their hooves. Falin paralysed a charging warrior, then vanished again. Dar'epha smiled. Perhaps the wood elf could take care of herself after all, despite her lack of offensive abilities.

The newly-formed group was not used to working together, and it showed. Tackling an enemy, Kureeth carried the elf so far he knocked down Gondain as well.

"Shit!" exclaimed the Dragonborn as he hit the frozen ground. "Watch it!" He staggered back up, a Thalmor warrior's sword deflecting harmlessly off his helmet, but jolting his vision. He pushed forward with his shield, following it up with a savage overhead strike that caved in his enemy's helmet.

Atop the low central barrow, Vash whirled with his axe, his latest fireball sent careening off in an undesired direction due to an incoming sword. He parried it with his axe, then hit upon the idea of wielding a _flaming _axe, and did so, combining the spells to become and even more formidable fighter. His foes did not last long.

His careening fireball, however, came within a hair's breadth of engulfing Kara. She felt its extreme heat as it whistled past her face, flinching back to let it pass, holding her breath, sweat forming on her brow. She pressed forward as soon as it had passed, swinging her sword in a high arc that opened a Thalmor mage's throat, but also almost took out Antario, the long swings of her huge sword decreasing her effectiveness in close quarters with allies. Fortunately, Antario saw it coming and ducked, rising to deliver a blast of lightning at point-blank range into a Thalmor warrior's face.

Dar'epha observed all these errors and more from her perch, still raining arrows down. She clenched her teeth. If these new allies were going to stay on with them and help them take care of whatever plots the Thalmor had cooked up, they would need to start actually working as a team, rather than each fighting their own small battles across the ruins. It was testament to each individual's skill, as well as a great deal of luck, that they all survived. Dar'epha launched her final arrow for the day into a Thalmor mage's leg, causing him to slump into the snow. With that, the Thalmor were defeated, their camp destroyed.

Gondain and Kureeth converged on the wounded mage, the former holding back the latter, grabbing the mage and punching him hard in the face.

"What's the plan?" yelled the Dragonborn. "Spill it!"

The mage laughed, causing Dar'epha to look carefully around for any more foes. This situation was a little too familiar. Gondain punched the mage again.

"Kureeth, break his legs," he said. The Argonian grasped the mage's left leg, and was about to start applying pressure when the mage started spluttering.

The Altmer's face was bloody, but he still let his glee shine through. "Y-you're too late, Dovahkiin," he said. "You'll never s-stop it now. But w-why don't you g-go down to Blackreach and h-have a look for yourself."

Gondain grimaced, and slammed his sword into the Thalmor's throat, hauling it out with violent force. Turning, he saw the mismatched group all gathered there, except Dar'epha, who was collecting her arrows back from the dead.

"That was a fucking shambles!" she called out. "You idiots nearly killed each other a buncha times."

Gondain's eyes passed over each member of those who had chosen to accompany him. Dar'epha, his friend from years past, a half-smile on her face, rifling through dead mer's pockets for spare change. Vash, the Arch-Mage, with him since the Dark Brotherhood, a finer orc he'd never met. But the others he wasn't so sure about. Kureeth was a powerhouse, but an uncontrolled one. Falin was versatile, but relied too much on others. Kara was reckless, and fought as if she was the only one in the fight. Antario had skill, that was evident, but his motives were still uncertain. But they were what he had to work with. Gondain made a decision.

"If we're going down to Blackreach," he said, "You lot are a going to need some better gear."


	32. Down to the Depths

_~Just a little advance warning: I may miss next week's update, my apologies. It requires some research, and I may not have time to do that. If I don't, it'll be up the week after. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

The group's return to Whiterun was not a pleasant one. Still caught up in a furore of angry racism, the people of Whiterun had somehow discovered Antario's existence. Perhaps the bartender had said something. Perhaps one of the other lodgers had seen him. It didn't matter, the consequence of it was that while the people of the town seemed to be going about their normal business, Gondain could tell that all eyes were trained on him and his group. He could feel the resentment and hatred bubbling beneath the surface, feel it ready to burst loose at any moment. But the Dragonborn was still in full armour, and the people of Whiterun would not turn against him lightly.

Gondain left the others out the front of Breezehome, directly them to make themselves comfortable inside while he went and spoke to Jarl Balgruuf. Vash accompanied him without a word.

The two gained little from their audience with the Jarl that they did not already know. There had been several reports of daedra attacks to the south, around Riverwood and further south into Falkreath hold. Attempts to get the guards to investigate had so far turned up nothing. Gondain let Vash recount the fight at Labyrinthian, along with the expanding Thalmor plans. Indeed, the Dragonborn spoke little throughout the whole audience, turning over the idea of returning to Blackreach for… what would it be now, the fourth time? It no longer intimidated him, as it had the first time, but he was still in awe of its danger and size, and was unsure how any of his companions would cope, none of them having seen the monolithic cavern before.

* * *

Returning to Breezehome, Gondain was dismayed to discover a small mob massed outside his home, citizens of Whiterun, angrily milling in front of his door. Several scattered when the Dragonborn approached, but many stayed put. Avulstein Grey-Mane stepped up towards Gondain and Vash as they approached.

"We heard you're hiding an elf in there," the large Nord said, full of bluster and importance. "Hand him over, and things won't have to get nasty."

Gondain's face hardened. "Vash, go inside," he said. The crowd parted to let the orc through, who slipped inside and closed the door. Gondain shook his head. "After all I've done for you damn people," he said, scanning the faces in the crowd, all of whom he recognised. "You think I would knowingly harbour a Thalmor spy?" He came right up in Avulstein's face, inches away, his teeth grinding in rage. "Do you think I would ever do anything against this town? You morons make me sick with your ignorance and your racist bullshit." With this last word, spittle flecked from Gondain's mouth onto Avulstein's face. "Get the fuck out of my way before I carve you in two."

Avulstein swallowed heavily and stepped back, the crowd scattering to let the Dragonborn through. He opened his door, but turned back to face the people of the town he'd helped so much.

"If any of you feels like breaching my property," he warned them, "Rest assured that I will use lethal force to defend it. How many of you favour your chances?" He slammed the door.

* * *

The rest of the day was spent inside Breezehome. Gondain emptied out his many chests and cupboards full of weapons and armour, putting them at his companion's disposal. Over his years of adventuring, the Dragonborn had acquired a veritable arsenal of powerful gear, some of which throbbed with a vicious energy that all the mages could sense. These daedric items he refused to release, keeping them locked in a chest under the stairs.

To Dar'epha, he gave an ebony bow. "This was given to me by Karliah," he said. "She used it to knock me unconscious on one memorable occasion."

Dar'epha smiled. "I've heard the story," she said. She strung the bow, and pulled experimentally on it. "Good draw," she commented. "That Dunmer knows her stuff."

Although there were several staves on offer, Vash declined politely, preferring to rely completely on his own magic. Even the Staff of Magnus, which was propped up against one of the bookshelves, was something he only used when facing the aftershocks of the Eye.

Antario was only too happy to give up his elven sword for something better. Gondain found an ancient Akaviri sword for him, slightly curved in that style. The Altmer gave it a few swings.

"A most excellently balanced blade," he said appreciatively. "But where did you happen across such a weapon?"

"In a grotto, north of Falkreath, if I remember correctly," Gondain replied. "It belonged one of the Blades, a man named Bolar. I was hunting werewolves when I found it."

Antario's eyebrows went up. "Acilius Bolar?" he asked. "Then this is the Oathblade of the last survivor of the siege on Cloud Ruler Temple. This sword was used to slay countless Thalmor, and now it finds itself in the hands of an ex-agent of that same faction, about to bring death to them once again. Fascinating. You continue to surprise me, Dovahkiin. I will be honoured to carry this weapon."

Gondain found himself smiling. It was nice to have his collection appreciated.

Kara needed more convincing. She was rather taken with her steel plate armour, and had wielded her steel sword for a long time. But after hammering home the seriousness of the power of the Dwemer centurions, she relented. He gave her a full set of orcish armour, and sent her over the Adrianne at Warmaiden's for minor alterations. Upon her return he added a huge ebony greatsword, slightly curved with a large handle for two-handed grip. She thanked him profusely, and clearly couldn't wait to get out into the open and test her new gear.

Kureeth needed no weapon, dead-set upon continuing his unarmed combat style, already happy with the protection and flexibility offered him by his new dragonscale armour. Falin refused a weapon, but accepted the need for more defence and was suitably impressed with what Gondain offered her: the Shield of Ysgramor, its round surface rippled with ancient carvings, large enough to completely duck behind out of the way of oncoming projectiles.

"It's enchanted against magic attacks," added Gondain.

Falin seemed pleased, pacing up and down the downstairs room of Breezehome, wearing the shield on her left arm. "What does this make me?" she asked. "A shield-mage? Has anyone else thought of fighting like this?" She looked at Vash, deferring to his knowledge.

The orc shrugged. "Not that I've ever heard of. You might be the first." That made her smile.

* * *

Evening fell, and finally Dar'epha spoke up, broaching the topic several had been thinking of.

"How are we actually going to get down into Blackreach?" she asked.

Gondain was unfazed. "Not a problem," he said. "We'll take the lift down into the Tower of Mzark."

The others were uncertain. None of them had ever braved the depths of Blackreach, but the Dragonborn had explored it not once, but thrice, voluntarily descending again and again for return trips to uncover its further mysteries. He sensed their feelings.

"Don't worry about it," he said. "I know my way around down there, as long as we stick together, it'll be fine. We'll just get in, have a quick look around to see if the Thalmor are up to something down there, and get out." He moved around the house, starting to prepare dinner.

"You should all stay here tonight, I think," Gondain went on. "There's certainly no way you two can go back to the inn," he directed at Kara and Antario.

"We are most grateful for your hospitality," replied Antario, giving a short bow. "But do you have enough room for every one of us here?"

"Sure," Gondain said. He gestured at each companion in turn. "Falin, Kureeth, you can take the main bedroom upstairs. Dar'epha and Kara can share the downstairs room. Antario, you can have the room at the top of the stairs, and I'll set up some bedrolls out here for Vash and I. If you're alright with that," he added to his orc friend.

Vash shrugged. "Sure, I don't mind."

"See? All sorted." The Dragonborn busied himself with dinner, but Dar'epha, who had known him longest, could see that he was not himself. The conversations, the actions, even the mission, all seemed to be a distraction for him, he did not seem as committed or driven as he once had. He had lost interest.

* * *

They set out early, seeking to avoid any angry crowds. Gondain had not slept, but he was used to that, and managed to hide it from the others, with the possible exception of Dar'epha, who kept giving him concerned looks.

They armed and armoured themselves before leaving the house. The Dragonborn wore his usual ebony armour, with his scimitar on his left hip and his shield, Spellbreaker, on his left arm. But he had loaded himself with more weapons. On his right hip was a solid-looking ebony mace, and on his back he carried two swords, one that had to be contained within a scabbard to prevent its bright glow attracting attention. This he called Dawnbreaker, causing a frown from Falin, who could sense that despite its light exterior, there were dark forces at work within the blade. The second sword he named Chillrend, made from glass, the weapon exuding a level of cold that was painful to come close to. He warned them away from touching the blade itself.

Ri'saad had refused to take them any further, expressing his desire to head for Solitude. He assured Falin and Kureeth they would always be able to find a place of employment among his caravans if they so wished. Kureeth shook the Khajiit's paw.

"Thank you, Ri'saad," spoke Falin. "You have done so much for us. But we need to see this through to its end."

"This one understands," replied Ri'saad. "But doubts there will ever be found guards as proficient as you two."

He headed for Solitude, seeking the next big deal. The companions set off for the lift at the Tower of Mzark, taking the road to the north and into the Pale. Eventually Gondain guided them off the road to the north-west, skirting a giant camp and leading them up a snowy hill towards a small Dwemer tower sitting alone but for a pair of snowed-in tents.

The Dragonborn hurdled the small flight of stairs and yanked open the tall barred gates that secured the entrance to the lift. He stood to one side, letting the others file past.

"Blackreach may be full of terrible things," he told them, "But it is, without doubt, one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen with my own eyes."

When they were all inside, arranged around the edge of the small circular room, he closed the gates with a clang and reached up to a lever on the wall, pulling it forcefully so it pointed down. After a delay, Dwemer lights around the walls of the room flickered on, and the lift started scraping downwards. The others looked around warily.

Vash tried to rationalise his misgivings away. "Dwemer constructions are the most solid in Tamriel," he said. "They have operated flawlessly for almost four thousand years, they were architects and engineers without peer…" he trailed off, unable to convince even himself.

There was a long uneasy silence, broken only by the scraping of stone on stone as the lift descending, the noise becoming more and more jarring.

"I've used this lift several times," said Gondain, "and I've never had any problems."

The lift soon proved him wrong. There was an almighty crack and the lights began to flicker. Gondain put on his helmet, Kureeth and Kara following his example. Another crack, and the lift stopped. The lights went out.

In the pitch black, far beneath the surface, there was a final wrenching crack, and the lift went into freefall.


	33. Stay Inside the Circle

_~Hey look, a new chapter! Apologies for this one taking so long. Thanks for reading.~_

* * *

To their credit, none of the group screamed as the lift fell. There wasn't really any time to do so. Vash was the first to take action. He cast telekinesis, stretching his arms out, hoping to slow to the fall of the lift before they hit the bottom. If there was a bottom. He strained, gritting his teeth, feeling the weight of the lift against the strength of his magic. Feeling his mana draining at an alarming rate, he finally sensed the lift was slowing.

Antario sent out a small circle of light, allowing the group to see each other once again. Antario and Falin's eyes widen as they saw what Vash was trying to do.

"A little help?" the orc breathed between his teeth. He felt his burden lessen as the two other mages added their spells to his. Eventually the lift slowed to a halt. There was an audible sigh of relief.

"Everyone alright?" asked Gondain, glancing around in the dimness at his companions. Miraculously, everyone seemed to be, other than frayed nerves. "How long can you hold that?" he asked Vash.

The three mages stood with their legs pressed firm, their arms extended wide, glowing green energies escaping from their fingers. "A while," answered Vash. "It's a lot easier with the three of us."

"We didn't pass the door into Blackreach," said Gondain, looking back up the lift shaft.

"You sure?" asked Dar'epha. "We were fallin' pretty fast there for a while."

"I'm sure," said Gondain. "We would have seen the lights." He turned to each of the mages in turn. "Can you let us down?" he asked. "Slowly, of course. First place to get out, we'll do it."

Vash nodded at Antario and Falin and together they relaxed their hold the smallest of amounts. Gradually, the lift began to descend, at a pace slower than its usual rate. The companions looked around nervously at each other. Well, all except the Dragonborn, who displayed no visible signs of distress whatsoever.

It was a tense descent, silent except for the scrape of stone upon stone as the lift went down. Minutes seemed to take hours. Eventually, an opening began to appear, growing wider as the descending lift revealed more of it. Gondain was the closest to it.

"When it gets big enough to fit through, stop," he said to the mages. They nodded, and as the gap became high enough for a being to crouch through, they stopped the lift.

"Alright!" announced Gondain. "Non-mages, out, out! Watch for the drop," he added. Dar'epha was first, going into a dive roll. The drop was just over the height of a tall man, but Dar'epha handled it expertly, landing on her feet. She turned back and helped Kara down, who had gone next, landing with a heavy thump, her armour clanking.

"Thanks," said Kara to the Khajiit.

Kureeth lingered, not wanting to leave Falin.

"Go," his wife instructed him, her face straining with the effort of holding up the lift. "I'll be fine." He went, rejecting Dar'epha's offer of help, landing on his feet with almost as much precision as she had, years of bare-knuckle fighting experience granting him expert balance. His tail swished nervously as the three outside the lift looked up through the gap at the four remaining inside.

"Gondain, you next," said Vash. The Dragonborn nodded and descended. Vash looked at his two remaining companions. "Falin, go," he said. "We'll pick up the slack." He began to sweat. Falin nodded, gradually releasing her hold on the lift. It slipped slowly for half a metre until Vash and Antario extended their mental reach. Falin dropped lightly through the now widening gap.

Antario was next. "Are you entirely sure you can hold this long enough to escape?" asked the Altmer. "I am happy to be the last inside if you do not wish to be."

"Release it gradually," breathed Vash, ignoring Antario's offer. "I can hold it long enough to get out." Antario did so, and the lift slowly dropped further, revealing the full opening with its thick stone arch, allowing him to merely step out. Vash's teeth grinded, the full burden of the lift's weight upon his magic. He smiled at the others, who were looking at him worryingly. He transferred the entire telekinesis spell to his left hand, the pressure of which almost brought him to his knees. With his right hand he cast a small levitation spell, enough to let him hover. Then he let the telekinesis spell go.

The lift dropped out from underneath him. Vash was left hovering lightly in the empty shaft. Gondain shot him a grin.

"You bastard," said the Dragonborn. "For a second there I was convinced you were going to go down with it."

Vash looked down, the lift disappearing into darkness. There was a flash of light, and Vash could make out another entrance. "There's another tunnel down there," he said.

"Deeper than Blackreach?" asked Falin between breaths, in disbelief.

"Full of Falmer, I imagine," added Gondain. "Now get onto solid ground and catch your breath," he said to Vash. The Arch-Mage did so, floating gently over, his feet lighting on the stone. Immediately he collapsed, supported by Gondain and Antario. They lowered him gently down, leaning him back against the wall.

"Your mana reserves are almost beyond my comprehension," said Antario. "But even you need to rest and recuperate. As do I, and Falin, I think."

"Good point," said Gondain. "You stay here, rest up for a minute." He scanned the rest of the group. Kureeth would never leave Falin, and he needed Dar'epha to keep an eye on everyone. "Kara," he said eventually, "Come with me, we'll have a look around, see if the coast is clear."

She nodded acquiescence. The two fully armoured warriors advanced up the tunnel, leaving the others behind. There was a pair of thick double Dwemer doors, already open. Gondain always left doors open in dungeons, you never knew when you'd need a quick getaway. They passed through them, advancing between two huge Dwemer pipes onto a glass surface, into the room where the Dragonborn had recovered the Elder Scroll. The great domed ceiling contained a pentagon-shaped light source, illuminating the whole room. The glass floor upon which the two were standing extended in a circle around a layered mound of metal, which rose to meet the contraption that descended from the ceiling, all mirrors and green gems. The lowest gem sat opened in two pieces, an empty rack visible. Kara was speechless in amazement. She'd seen Dwemer ruins before, taken refuge in them while on the run as a Stormcloak, but only on the surface, never something like this…

"Quite something, isn't it?" remarked Gondain. "The Dwemer sure knew how to design a space." He walked slowly around to the right, reaching the top of a ramp that winded down beneath the glass to the rest of the Tower. "Doesn't seem to be anyone here," he went on. "I don't think the Falmer have a way in, or know how to work the lifts. Maybe this place scares them."

"I can understand that," exclaimed Kara. Her eyes darted from one wonder to the next. Some of the mirrors hanging from the contraption reflected beams of light down to the floor, and she passed her armoured hand through one of them, her face, uncovered by her half-helm, looked up at Gondain. "I can't believe I'm really here," she said.

Gondain grinned beneath his helmet, relaxing his stance. "You haven't even seen the best bit yet," he said. A noise caused him to swivel quickly, but it was just the rest of the group, Falin and Kureeth intertwined despite his pointed armour, Vash leaning heavily on Antario, Dar'epha bringing up the rear. None of them had ever seen anything like it before. Vash shrugged off Antario's help, his exhaustion forgotten as he strode up the dome to the empty rack.

"That's where I found the Elder Scroll," said Gondain, losing interest. He'd seen it before. He'd seen it all before. There wasn't a place left in Skyrim that he hadn't seen. Now he just wanted to find the Thalmor and get out.

"Extraordinary," said Antario. "Simply extraordinary." Vash ran his fingers along the empty rack. Falin and Kureeth spoke quietly to each other. Kara waved her fingers through the ray of light again. Dar'epha's eyes were on Gondain. She couldn't see his face, but she could still read him.

"Come on, let's go!" she announced on his behalf. "Can't wander around here all glazy-eyed all day, can we? Got a job to do!" She set off after Gondain, who'd started descending the ramp as soon as she'd started speaking. Gradually, reluctantly, the others followed them.

Going beneath the glass, down the ramp and onto the stone, it was revealed that the Dwemer dome was not a dome at all, but a giant sphere. Continuing around, they came to a doorway, and Gondain led them into a room, containing a long-cold campfire and a single bedroll. Beyond, another lift.

"Another lift?" exclaimed Falin. "I don't think I could handle another fall like that."

"It's fine," said Vash. "We'll be ready this time, if it does happen."

"I do not think it will," said Antario. "We are already trapped down here, the Thalmor gain nothing by destroying another lift. They want us to go further down, to discover whatever they have lying in wait for us."

Falin turned to him. "You think the Thalmor destroyed that lift? Sabotaged it? Did you know?"

"I did not know in advance," Antario assured her. "Otherwise I would not have entered it."

"Dwemer constructions don't just fail suddenly like that," said Vash, as they stepped into the second lift. "It must have been sabotaged."

"We're trapped though, ain't we?" asked Kara.

"No," Gondain cut across their jabbering. "There's plenty of other ways out, lifts to the surface, up through ruins. We're not trapped." He pulled the lever, sending them down even further into the depths.

* * *

Blackreach stunned the Dragonborn's companions even more than the Tower of Mzark had. The group stepped out of the lift full of wonder onto the thin stone bridge. They stared up at the glowing tendrils that stretched down from the top of the enormous cavern, at the glowing mushrooms that loomed in clumps around the misty river, at the city with its glowing orange sphere hovering above it. At the Dwemer machines and Falmer that swarmed along the paths, engaged in bitter conflict, centuries of hatred at play.

"Did you know about this?" asked Gondain, spinning to confront Antario. "We're going to have to fight our way through that pack if we want to get out. Are there even any Thalmor here at all?"

"To my chagrin, I did not know," replied Antario. "There were rumours of a conflict being organised, but I had no idea it would be of this nature. There are quite likely no Thalmor here, they merely sabotaged the lift and orchestrated this battle, hoping that the sheer numbers of foes would overwhelm us."

"That's not going to happen," spat Gondain, determined. Dar'epha grinned. The Dragonborn functioned best in the face of seemingly unbeatable odds. He turned to address his companions, who were drawing their weapons. He did the same, using his scimitar as a pointer.

"We have to get out of here," he said, his voice laced with barely restrained violence. "The closest way is the Great Lift of Mzinchaleft. Follow the path down to the junction, then left up the hill. You'll pass under an arch. The lift is on the left, shortly after that. I am telling you this in case we get separated. DO NOT attempt to engage the enemy unless they engage you first! The Dwemer machines and the Falmer will engage each other. Use this to your advantage. Our priority is to get out of here, not heap ourselves in the glory of victory. No one gets left behind. Understood?"

The group nodded, trying to ready themselves for the task ahead of them.

"I can create a protective circle, if that helps," proposed Falin.

"Good!" said Gondain. "Do so. Everyone else, stay inside the circle, unless absolutely necessary."

Falin cast her spell, creating a wide circle on the ground, some four metres across. Gondain continued with his instructions.

"Our last fight together at Labyrinthian was a shambles!" he bellowed. "Here, we will work as a unit, as a team! Kureeth, stay with Falin, protect her, you protect the circle. Dar'epha, stay on your bow, support anyone who needs it. Antario, Vash, I would prefer you two to work from a distance, but you get up close with enemy, deal with them. Kara, defend our rear. I'll take the vanguard." He scanned his companions. "Well, let's fucking go!" he yelled, hurdling the stairs down to the ground, engaging the pack of Falmer that had spotted them and was advancing on their position.

His scimitar took on one in the throat, slicing another's belly open. Two arrows and several lightning bolts from behind him took care of the rest. The circle caught up with him and he felt its energies seep through his muscles. Falin had filled it with restorative energies. Slowly the circle moved towards where one path met the other, where the main fight was taking place.

"Archers on the walls!" yelled Dar'epha. Gondain looked up and there they were: a line of Falmer, launching arrows down from the walls of the Silent City that loomed over them.

"I got them," he said. Taking a deep breath, he launched his Thu'um. "_Fus-Ro-Dah!_" he yelled, the force cannoning into the line of Falmer archers, sending them flying off the walls back into the courtyard of the city. The dregs of his Voice reached the orange globe that hung over the city, causing it to shimmer lightly, but the Dragonborn ignored it, disregarding his own advice and launching himself once more into the fight.

The idea of the circle soon deteriorated. Gondain got lost among the masses, swinging his scimitar wildly, taking out Falmer and Dwemer indiscriminately. Soon his armour was slick with blood, none of it his own. He used his shield as a weapon too, bashing it into faces and using its sharp edges to dig into flesh. He stomped on a Dwemer Spider, then barrelled into a Sphere, knocking it back and severing its joints with short slashes.

* * *

Falin moved the circle forward, reaching the centre and heading up to the left. She added a second casting to it, making it sap the energies of enemies who breached its perimeter. Sadly, it had no effect on the Dwemer machines. She raised her shield, the Shield of Ysgramor, to block a stray arrow, looking across at Kureeth, who was tearing the legs off a Dwemer spider.

* * *

Dar'epha strode to the right of Falin, sending arrows wherever they were needed. The Falmer were easy, an arrow anywhere in them would be a help, but the Dwemer constructs were harder. Her arrows needed to land in just the right place to sever connections, to cripple them so one of the others could finish them off. A Falmer, its blind face filled with rage, got too close. She dropped her bow and drew her daggers just in time, carving a vicious slice in the monster's face with one while burying the other in its chest. One stuck between its ribs and she abandoned it, hurling the other at an archer about to take a shot at her. She scooped up her bow and caught up with Falin as the circle headed up the left path, firing more arrows, all finding their mark.

* * *

Kara was glad she'd given in to Gondain and taken his offer of new armour and a new sword. Without it she would have been dead already, a dozen times over. Her new ebony sword was heavy, but it was that weight that let her cleave through the thick metal that protected the Dwemer machines. Her new orcish armour protected her from the worst of their blows as she struck at them again and again with little concern for her own safety. She never let any of them breach the circle to attack the others from behind.

But it was clear she was out of her depth. She survived only through the help of her allies. Frequently a machine would knock her back; a Falmer would lunge past her guard. It was then that an arrow would hit her foe, or a bolt of lightning, or a spike of ice. She'd scramble back up and finish the enemy off, throwing a smile the way of her companions. But that's what they were there for, she realised. To help each other. Any of them on their own would have been overwhelmed, but together they could stand their ground, complementing each other's skills, fighting side by side and back to back.

Perhaps the Dragonborn could have fought this battle on his own, thought Kara. If it was any of them, it was him. The circle moved on.

* * *

The circle passed between glowing blue rocks and a huge glowing mushroom as Antario launched another lightning bolt. They were his preferred form of offensive magic, and could be chained to have devastating effects on both Falmer and construct. The Akaviri blade given to him by the Dragonborn was also proving most useful, carving right through any Falmer that got too close. His robes swung to the side as he dodged an arrow with ease, but the next one sank deep into his left shoulder. Quickly casting a protective spell on his flesh, he yanked the arrow out with a grunt, recovering just in time to fry an approaching Falmer with a bolt.

This form of open battle wasn't his preferred sort of fight. The Thalmor preferred to work in the shadows, striking without warning, turning friends against each other, coming in later to wipe up the remains. But he was Thalmor no longer, he remembered. And he was holding his own. He slapped a quick healing spell on his shoulder, then encased his blade in fire, combining it with blasts of ice to slow his foes, then carving them through with the blade. It was a mixture he wished he'd set upon earlier.

* * *

Vash was a battle-mage, he realised. It was an area in which he excelled. His deep mana reserves let him have multiple spells on the go, reinforced by Falin's protective circle. His flesh hardened to the strength of ebony, he wielded a bound axe in his right hand, and launched a mix of fireballs and icy spears from his left. With a wave of his hand he summoned a fire atronach in the midst of a pack of advancing Falmer. It was torn down quickly, exploding upon its death with a fiery blast that took out the entire pack. This was the situation his magic skills belonged in, adapting and modifying a plethora of offensive spells to inflict catastrophic harm on his many foes.

The circle advanced, nearing a long bend in the path, the stone arch Gondain had mentioned within sight. Several loud thumps caught his attention. Was that a—?

"Centurion!" yelled Vash.

* * *

Gondain's head snapped round at his friend's cry, seeing the lumbering metal monster approaching the circle from the front. Gondain broke off his fight with a Chaurus by splitting its skull with his scimitar. By this time, the circle was rounding a corner with another large glowing blue rock, to the right. The Centurion was emerging from a lower path to the left. It raised its left arm and let loose a blast of high-pressured steam in Falin's direction. The others rolled out of the way, but Falin could not without the circle falling apart. She dropped to one knee, bringing up her large shield in front of her, protecting her from the attack.

Gondain was running. He tossed his scimitar to Vash, who dispelled his bound axe in time to catch it and carve a Falmer's head open, sending a fireball at an approaching Dwemer Sphere at the same time. Gondain drew his heavy ebony mace and charged the Centurion, finding that Kureeth was alongside him.

"Cripple the legs!" yelled Gondain. They both rolled, the Argonian to the left, the Breton to the right, out of the way of the Centurion's incoming axe blow. Gondain smashed his mace into the back of the machine's left knee joint, Kureeth doing the same with his powerful foot on the right. The construct let out a hiss of steam that went high over the whole party, and crumpled to its knees. Kureeth stuck his hands into the joints of the Centurion's right arm and pulled, wrenching pieces out of place, stepping back to smash into it with his foot. The arm soon hung by a single twisted piece of metal, which he severed with a final kick. Gondain went round to face the machine head on, slamming his mace into its 'face' and torso again and again until the ridges on his weapon were flattened. Wrenching it free and moving back as the Centurion collapsed, he was surprised to see a giant on the path ahead. How a giant had managed to get down into Blackreach he would never know. He hurled his mace at its head, breaching its skull and knocking it to the ground. Dar'epha buried several arrows in it to make sure.

The circle passed the body of the Centurion and rejoined Gondain. He felt its healing waves wash over him and re-energise him, alleviating his aches and pains. The worst of the battle was behind them now, Kara dealing with the dregs that got too close, along with Dar'epha, Vash and Antario launching projectiles into them.

Then, there was an almighty roar, a roar that was very familiar to Gondain, familiar to all who had lived in Skyrim in the past few years. They'd thought they'd heard the last of that roar. But there it was: a dragon, circling the city, likely brought out of the sound of the Dragonborn's Voice. It rained fire down on the Falmer, eliminating the last of them, only the Dwemer constructs surviving the intense heat. The dragon landed, right behind the circle.

"Run!" yelled Gondain. They did. He did the opposite. This was the sort of enemy he had been born to fight. He cast aside his shield, drawing Chillrend and Dawnbreaker from their scabbards on his back. The former radiated cold in his left hand, the latter shone as bright as its name sake in his right. He rushed at the dragon, rolling to the right as it launched another great burst of fire. With Chillrend he cut deep into the dragon's left front leg, running Dawnbreaker down the beast's side, causing it to let out a great bellow of pain.

It swung round its long neck to snap at him with its huge teeth, but he slashed Chillrend across its snout. It roared again, belching fire. He swung to the right, his back up against the side of the dragon. He flipped Chillrend's grip in his hand and drove it into the side of the monster, using Dawnbreaker to carve open its neck. He drove the shining blade down again, this time into the beast's skull. Its roar became weaker, then cut off abruptly as the sword breached the thick skull. For the first time in a long while, the Dragonborn had slain a dragon.

Gondain sheathed both swords, scooped up Spellbreaker, and jogged after his companions, seeing the remnants of the Dwemer mechanisms coming after him. He caught up with them in the lift, the circle now dispelled, and yanked the lever that rested in the centre of the round room.

There was a shudder, and the lift rose smoothly. The companions collapsed around the edges of the lift, exhausted from their ordeal. They had survived Blackreach.


	34. Tales of Past Lives

All seven of the companions couldn't get out of the lift fast enough. They were further north than where they'd descended, and it was snowing, the drifts piling high around them. Apart from the jutting tower that contained the lift, there was no building in sight, just snow and trees and more snow. The group stood around up to their knees in the white groundcover, savouring the taste of the fresh air. Almost noon, or thereabouts, Dar'epha reckoned, though it was hard to tell with the weather the way it was.

"Does anyone know where we are?" she asked. Gondain took off his helmet and tucked it under his left arm. Flakes of snow landed in his hair. He scratched his beard.

"We're not far from Fort Dunstad," he said. "We could rest up there. I can still pull rank with the Legion if I need to."

Kara and Kureeth removed their helmets as well. Dar'epha pulled the hood of her Guild armour up to stop snow getting in her fur. She rubbed her scars and peered through the falling snow for signs of danger. Vash handed Gondain's scimitar back to him, who returned it to its scabbard. The orc knew the area too.

"Isn't the Hall of the Vigilant closer?" he asked. "I'm sure they'd take us in."

Falin added her support to that idea. "Sure, they always take in travellers who need shelter, which we will if this snowstorm picks up," she said.

"It will," grunted Kureeth, his tail making an arc in the snow with its swishing.

"We can't go there," rejected Gondain. "The Vigilants and I don't really see eye to eye." He started to move off through the snow, around to the left behind the lift and between some trees, heading to the south-east. The others hurried to catch up with him. As they passed a rocky outcrop jutting from the snow on their right, Falin called out to Gondain.

"Is that because of the demonic sword on your back?" she asked, raising her voice. He stopped and looked back at her over his shoulder. "I'm not an idiot," Falin went on. "All us mages can sense it. There's something off about your shield, too."

Gondain looked tired beyond comprehension, his eyes hooded and drooping, his shoulders hunched against the cold. The others weren't much better.

"You really want to talk about this now?" he asked, throwing his free arm wide. "We're going to freeze to death out here if we don't get moving."

"Yeah, I do want to talk about it now," continued Falin. "Because you're carrying around gear with history, gear that could only have come straight from the Daedra."

"She is correct," agreed Antario. "The glowing sword you utilised against the dragon in Blackreach is known to the Thalmor. It is Dawnbreaker, granted to servants of Meridia. That shield is known as Spellbreaker, it has appeared in accounts dating back centuries as relating to Peryite. You are carrying dangerous artifacts, Dovahkiin."

Gondain squashed his eyes closed briefly, opening them to find Falin and Antario still looking at him accusingly, now joined by Kara. Kureeth's face could not be read, Dar'epha didn't care, and Vash had dabbled with the Daedra himself. At least he wasn't entirely alone.

"Fine," he said, advancing through the deepening snow back towards them. "Here's the whole story." He sighed, then continued. "After I was named Dragonborn, I went a adventure-crazy. If there was something to be done in Skyrim, I did it. This including doing deals with most of the Daedric Princes." Kara let out a small gasp at this point. "I knew what I was getting into. I helped them out, and in return I was given weapons and armour better than I could find anywhere else. I regret it now, of course." He paused, staring pensively up into the sky. Falin looked about to interrupt, so he continued to cut over her. "I used their weapons for a time, but the cost was too great. I convinced myself I was holding onto them so that nobody else could use them for evil, but that wasn't enough. I disposed of them when I was married. Some are buried deep in the ground, some are on the bottom of the sea. Nobody can have them now."

Falin was somewhat assured by the tale. "But why do you still have those two?" she asked.

Gondain shrugged. "Meridia's not that bad," he said. "She hates undead, I kill a lot of undead. We don't have a lot of disagreements in that area. Dawnbreaker is the best weapon I've found against the undead."

"And Spellbreaker?" asked Antario.

"It's a good shield," replied Gondain. "I haven't found a better one yet. I was going to dispose of it when we came back from our trip," he said, gesturing towards Dar'epha, who nodded. "But then this business with the Thalmor started, and I thought I might need it."

"I've seen your collection," said Vash. "Surely you've got a shield in there that's just as good? You had the Shield of Ysgramor, for Oblivion's sake." He pointed at that self-same shield, now on Falin's arm.

"Probably," replied Gondain. "The point is," he went on, "is that those days are in the past. I don't deal with Daedra anymore. The Vigilants of Stendarr, on the other hand, would rather punish me for my past crimes, rather than let me get on with the demon-slaying in atonement. Which is why we can't take shelter in their hall. So can we please get moving to Fort Dunstad?"

"Yeah, it's fucking freezing out here," agreed Dar'epha. "Come on, move, I can feel icicles forming in my whiskers." Falin chuckled at that, and the group started moving again, slogging through the snow towards the shelter of the Fort.

They had to skirt a giant's camp on the way to the Fort. Red Road Pass, Gondain called it. Its huge fire looked inviting through the trees, no doubt radiating fierce heat, but the Dragonborn guided them around it at a safe distance. The huge shadow of a mammoth loomed in front of the fire, blocking the light, and they moved on.

They avoided the Hall of the Vigilant too, coming within sight of it as they rejoined what passed for a road in those parts of Skyrim. Falin looked longingly towards its inviting walls and spurting chimney, but said nothing.

Eventually they crested a hill and there it was: Fort Dunstad, an outpost of the Imperial Legion, its black stones rising defiantly out of the snow, daring the cold to try and bring it down. Gondain hailed a soldier on the battlements, and they gate was open for them when they rounded the walls to reach it, revealing a single officer, a thick fur cloak wrapped over his Legion armour.

"Legate!" hailed the officer, perhaps not as surprised as he could have been at seeing the Dragonborn at the head of such a motley band, exhausted and bloodstained. "What can I do for you?"

"At ease, Prefect," said Gondain, who suddenly seemed to stand taller and straighter in the snow. "We were looking for shelter against this blizzard, officer, and hoped you could aid us." He peered through the falling snow. "Lucred, is that you?"

Dar'epha had long ceased to be surprised at the breadth of people known to Gondain. No doubt this Prefect Lucred was an old war comrade of the Dragonborn's, she thought. The two old friends broke with formality and grasped wrists.

Lucred grinned. "Stands to reason you'd finally show up in a storm like this," he said. He was unshaven and weary, but still in full command of his senses.

Gondain shrugged it off. "We had a spot of bother to deal with down in Blackreach," he said. Dar'epha heard several of their companions scoff. An understatement if there ever was one. The Prefect's eyes went wide. "I'll come by after it's dealt with," Gondain assured him. "Tell you all about it."

"I'll hold you to that," said Lucred. He pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders. "You and your friends are welcome to the old inn. It's a little bare, but comfortable enough." He gestured to his right, and Gondain led his companions in that direction, grasping wrists with Lucred again, telling him to get back inside the Fort out of the cold.

'The Stumbling Sabrecat', the inn was called, and it was as bare as the Prefect had claimed. But it served well enough for their purposes. A single bed rested in the corner, two small circular tables with six chairs between them nestled close to an empty hearth. Above the hearth hung the stuffed head of a sabrecat with the neck of a wine bottle stuck between its teeth, the namesake of the inn. The bar was bare but for a few empty tankards.

Gondain dropped his helmet on the bar and stamped off the snow. Quickly and expertly he removed his armour, Kara and Kureeth following his example. He moved for the stairs to the basement.

"Vash, get that fire started," he said. "I'll find us some more wood." He vanished down the stairs. Vash knelt in front of the hearth and piled what little wood remained there into a small pile, lighting it with a tiny flame spell. Dar'epha hurdled the bar and set about finding them all tankards and drinks. Kureeth, his armour removed, pulled the two tables together nearer the fire, arranging the chairs around them in a loose circle. Falin collapsed in the rightmost chair nearest the fire, pulling off her boots and sighing deeply. Kureeth joined her, then Antario. Kara was next, leaving her arms and armour in a pile and stretching out next to her Altmer friend.

The fire under control, Vash rose and saw that there would not be enough seats when Gondain returned. He pulled a stool over and positioned it near the left of the fire, seating himself there. Unable to find a poker, he rose and unhooked the steel greatsword that hung above the hearth, using that instead, jostling the logs. Dar'epha was next, arriving with tankards for everyone, vanishing briefly behind the bar to reappear with two bottles of wine and three of the Nord's favoured drink, mead. She seated herself next to Vash.

Eventually, Gondain emerged from the basement, carrying an immense armful of wood, dropping it down in the gap between Vash and the hearth. He took the last remaining seat, between Dar'epha and Kara. Everyone poured themselves drinks. Wine for Gondain, Vash and Falin; mead for everyone else. There was restful silence for a while.

"Did anyone see me when I crippled that Sphere in one shot?" grinned Dar'epha.

"No," replied Kara, grinning too. "But I did see Kureeth rip the arm off that Centurion."

"Shit, I'm sorry I missed that one," said Dar'epha. A smile spread across Kureeth's scaly face.

"Did anyone see my atronach explode?" asked Vash.

"Indeed I did," responded Antario. "A classic manoeuvre, perfectly executed."

"Did you see me jump off that mushroom and ride that Centurion into a pack of Falmer?" asked Dar'epha.

A small frown appeared on Kara's face. "I… I don't think that happened," she said.

"No," admitted Dar'epha. "But I had you for a second there."

Gondain sat back at listened to his companions swap tales and tell stories. He'd long outgrown the need to do so himself. Most of them were not tales he wanted to relive. Besides, a great deal of them bordered on the impossible or unbelievable. He smile grew as theirs did, the tales becoming taller, Dar'epha leading the way.

The bitter winds lashed against the walls of the old inn, but the mismatched group was safe and warm inside, finally comfortable in one another's company. Finally, after keeping silent through a blow-by-blow account of one of Dar'epha's more daring heists, Gondain cut in.

"What do we do now?" he asked. "We escaped the Thalmor's trap, but their plan isn't over. What's our next move?"

"Did not your Jarl report daedric attacks?" asked Antario. "The Thalmor have been known to experiment with such things. It might be worth investigating."

Vash nodded. "South, Balgruuf said," he said. "Around Riverwood, down into Falkreath."

Falin agreed. "That's near where we were attacked," she said. "There's definitely something wrong going on down there. Perhaps we could ask the people of Riverwood? They might know something. Or we could scout the countryside; we could cover a lot of ground between us."

"Good idea," said Gondain, standing and stretching. He went over to the door and opened it a crack. Snow spilled into the inn, soaking his feet. "We're going to be stuck here for a while yet," he added.

"Come sit down," urged Dar'epha. "Tell 'em how you met Azura."

Gondain shouldered the door shut and returned to his seat. "It is a good tale," he admitted. He launched into it.

"_There was a snowstorm blowing almost as fierce as this one when I ascended the narrow steps up to the Shrine of Azura. I had learned of it from a Dunmer named Faldrus, who had said he was on a pilgrimage. But as I crested the summit, it became obvious that he had not survived the climb…"_


	35. Scouting Trips

They ended up spending the night in the Stumbling Sabrecat. The blizzard refused to let up until late into the night, beating on the roof and thumping on the door. But the companions slept warmly. In the morning Lucred waded through the snows to apologise for his lack of hospitality. The Dragonborn assured him that it was no problem at all, that he would commend the Prefect to Legate Rikke the next time he saw her. Lucred's smile almost split his face in two. He shook Gondain's hand fiercely, and wished them all the best, telling Gondain that he had best come for that visit as soon as he had a moment to do so.

"The Legion needs more like Lucred," said Gondain as the group set out. "We took this fort together during the Civil War; I got a promotion, he got the Fort. He's done alright for himself."

"I don't understand," enquired Kara, "how you're still in the Legion. When was the last time you served?"

Gondain chuckled. "Not since the war ended," he said. "Officially, I'm on indefinite leave."

"And unofficially?" asked Kara.

He shrugged. "I think they feel it's beyond them to order around the Dragonborn. I don't know why, the Blades and the Greybeards never had a problem with it. It's one of the reasons I never really liked them."

* * *

They turned south where the roads met, leaving the Pale and its snows behind them, moving down onto the fields of Whiterun. They passed by the city itself, and headed up the winding path towards Riverwood. The morning sun shone down on their journey, and they were not troubled along their way. Soon enough, they came to Riverwood and Gondain led them to the Sleeping Giant Inn.

"Make yourselves comfortable," he said, heading to the bar to talk to Orgnar, the barkeep and owner.

"Is it just me?" asked Falin, as the group filled up a bench, "Or does he know everyone in Skyrim?"

Dar'epha could answer that one. "More or less," she said. "This was the first place he came after Helgen. Spent a lot of time here, knows pretty much ev'ryone in town. S'done a lot for these people." Although, none of the people were in the inn at that moment, at that early morning hour it was empty apart from them.

Gondain returned to them after a few minutes, standing at the head of the bench, his brow furrowed.

"Orgnar says there's been a bunch of attacks, mostly at night," he said. "Embry was out drunk a week ago, he was found the next morning burned and without a head."

"Did you know him?" asked Kara.

Gondain nodded. "Yeah. He was a drunk and a grouch, but I liked him. Could tell a good tale once you got some mead in him." Another dead comrade, he thought. Too many gone, too many dead for nothing.

"Do they not have guards in this town?" asked Antario.

"Sure," replied Gondain. "But there are only three of them, and at night there's only one on patrol. Easy for a dead drunk to go unnoticed."

"Should we scout around?" asked Falin. "See if we can find something outside the town?"

"Sure," repeated Gondain. "Split into pairs, we can cover more ground that way." He scanned the room. One mage per pair seemed like a prudent move. Put everyone with who they were most comfortable. Except that they were an odd number.

Dar'epha saw that problem before Gondain could say anything, and solved it. "I'll go alone," she said. "I can cover more ground without any of you slowing me down." She smirked and moved for the door, before Gondain could even tell her what area she should cover. Ah well, he thought. If anyone was going to find anything, it would be her. He turned back to the others.

"Falin, Kureeth," he said. "Head back downriver, stay on this side, go as far back as you need to. Antario, Kara, stay on this side too, but go upriver. Avoid the mine, there are usually bandits hanging around there and we haven't got time for that. Vash and I will cross at the bridge and go upriver on the other side. Alright?"

There was a chorus of nods. They set out, leaving the inn to head out into the countryside surrounding Riverwood.

* * *

After seeing Vash and Gondain off at the bridge north of Riverwood, Falin and Kureeth headed north. They went along the east bank of the river, skirting around jutting stones, just avoiding getting their feet wet. There were multiple ledges, and Kureeth always held out a helping hand to his wife. It was sunny, and Falin found she was enjoying herself, despite the seriousness of their quest.

There were the remnants of a fallen tree, sticking out over the water, pointing towards the waterfall that would take the flowing water past Whiterun. Falin strode confidently to the end of the branch, her arms held wide for extra balance. Kureeth kept on the ground, moving to edge of the river, ready to catch her if she fell. She could see nothing out of the ordinary from her perch, and leapt down into Kureeth's arms, laughing. A grin cracked open across his face, and they continued on.

In a cleft in the rock sat a deposit of clay. Kureeth made a note of it, he'd always wanted to build his own home, and every material he didn't have to pay for was a boon. They skirted a mossy tree, Falin running her fingers down its downy surface. A dead branch lay at the water's edge, Kureeth hefted it up and into the river. Another tree, this time covered in mushrooms. Falin paused to gently break them off the trunk and drop them into a pouch on her belt.

"_Mora Tapinella_," she called them. "Good for boosting your mana in a fix." Kureeth only nodded and smiled. Falin's alchemical knowledge had been improving ever since they arrived in Skyrim.

Their path widened, then narrowed again as they reached the falls. Ducking past a bulging rock, they emerged onto an outcrop that served as a perfect vantage point to look out over the plains of Whiterun. The first waterfall was to their left, the second further downstream to their right. Whiterun itself was clearly visible, Dragonsreach standing tall over its city. Falin turned around, her eyes scanning the surrounding slopes.

"I guess this is as far as we can go," she said. "Those slopes look too steep to climb."

Kureeth scoffed and gave it a go. He soon slid down the grass, his feet scrambling for grip. His wife laughed lightly at him. Her face dropped for a moment.

"We're out of our depth, aren't we?" she asked. "I almost died in Blackreach so many times I lost count. Gondain, Vash, Dar'epha, they're good at this sort of thing. We're not like them."

Kureeth shrugged. "Do you want to be?" he asked.

Falin thought that one over. "I… don't think so, no. I'd like to learn more magic, but no, I don't want to be a warrior like them. I don't want that life." She stopped, staring out at the river. "Do you?" she asked.

Kureeth shook his head.

"But you want to see this through, right?" she asked.

Kureeth nodded.

"Alright then," she said. "We'll see this through, although I don't doubt the Dragonborn could do it without our help. Remember what I said about Winterhold?"

Kureeth nodded again. Of course he remembered.

"Then that's where we'll go, after this is over." She smiled at him. "We can build a home, finally. I'll enrol in the College. There's a lot I could learn there."

Kureeth stretched his arms out over his head, his fingers interlocked. He brought them down again with a yawn.

"Come on," said his wife. "Let's get back to the inn."

* * *

Kara and Antario followed the road south of Riverwood along the river, leaving it as soon as they could. There was a gap in the hill to the left of the path, and they strolled up it. Kara took the lead, her hand always ready to draw her weapon. She'd spent a great deal of time living in Skyrim's wilderness, living off the land, avoiding its natural dangers. Antario, on the other hand, had spent most of his life within cities, and was more than happy to let her take the lead. Her eyes scanned their surrounds, taking their mission with the utmost seriousness.

The ledge they were on spanned the gap between the steep cliffs that were the Throat of the World, and the path beside the White River. The foliage was all a vibrant green, birds sung in the trees, and Kara felt her guard relaxing. They passed a vein of iron ore, sprouting from the earth, and moved on through the gently swaying grass and between the trees. The slope steepened, and their view ahead was blocked by a huge tree. Holding aside its branches, Kara and Antario stepped through to find the mine entrance Gondain had told them to avoid.

An empty cart and a small pile of lumber edged the clearing that enclosed the mine entrance. But it was the hound that caused Kara to come to attention. The beast was larger than any dog she had ever seen, black as the darkest night, with slavering jaws. It had been feasting on the bandit unlucky enough to be chosen for exterior guard duty, its teeth rending through his flesh, the blood soaking into the soil. At the sight of them though, the hound looked up at them with ferocious red eyes.

With no time to draw her sword, Kara grabbed the empty cart and hurled it at the beast. In the same moment, Antario cast a bolt of flame, which turned the cart into a flaming cart, the resulting blow knocking the hound across the clearing, coming up roaring with pain, shaking the shattered bits of smoking wood from its fur.

Kara drew her sword, the heavy blade sweeping through the air as the beast charged. The blade came down, Kara moving to the side, cutting deep into the hound's side. Antario finished it off with a shock spell.

"Well, I guess that proves there are Daedra 'round here," said Kara.

"It would seem that way," said Antario. "But I would prefer that we have a further look around before returning to the others. I doubt one hound is the extent of the Thalmor's plans."

"Are we cut out for anything bigger?" Kara asked.

Antario frowned. "I am not sure what you mean," he said. "We are both perfectly competent fighters. Need I remind you of how well you dealt with the Thalmor agents that attacked us in Windhelm? You handled yourself remarkably well."

"Sure," said Kara, unsure and unused to compliments. "But Daedra? This is more than I can handle." She clamboured up the hill on the other side of the clearing, keeping her sword drawn. Antario followed her, drawing his own blade, the Akaviri weapon given to him by the Dragonborn.

"You handled that hound very well," persisted Antario, internally cursing his own formal manner. "And you will not be alone. We number seven, all of us skilled in our own fighting styles." They crested the hill, rejoining the path, which had risen and twisted up the slope. The two trod down the short distance to the Guardian Stones, the three monuments that stood proud amidst a tangled stone base.

"Yeah, you're probably right," admitted Kara. "I just wish I was better, y'know? I fought the Dragonborn once, I told you that."

Antario nodded. "I remember the tale most clearly," he said.

"He could have taken me apart," she said. "He was toyin' with me. S'like he's on some whole other level of fighting. Above men. And mer," she added.

Antario could not help but agree, especially after seeing him in action in Blackreach. He cleared his throat, cancelling Kara's pensive gazing out over Lake Ilinalta.

"We should return," he said. "We have something to report, and can return with fuller force."

Kara sighed deeply. "Alright," she said.

* * *

Vash and Gondain stepped off the path almost as soon as they crossed the bridge, heading upriver on the west side. Gondain led the way, as he knew the area as he knew every area in Skyrim: extraordinarily well. They stepped around a tree stump marked with the strikes of a woodcutting axe, and took a long leaping stride together over a little stream that emerged from a gap in the rocky mountainside to their right.

Further on, past more jagged tree stumps, a huge elk reared up before them, its thick fur matted with riverwater. It shook its head furiously, its antlers whirling in the movement, water flying in every direction. That done, it moved past them at a distance close enough that Vash could have reached out at touched the animal.

Gondain smiled at Vash's amazement.

"I never get tired of that," said the Dragonborn. They continued on.

Their path narrowed significantly after that. To avoid soaking their feet, they were forced to hurdle a fallen tree trunk and brush through a bush, Gondain holding the branches back for his friend. Their path widened again, a huge hollow fallen tree the main imposing object in the space. Gondain strode towards the hollow itself, Vash following.

"The bandits sometimes use this as a stash," Gondain said. "Might be we'll find something." He walked into the dark hole, its natural ceiling high enough that he had no need to duck. He tore aside loose branches and uncovered a chest. Wrenching open the lid, he pulled out a pouch of gold and a shiny emerald. He shrugged. "Could be worse," he said. He pocketed both finds.

They moved on, down the green slope and up the next. A hooded figure in red and yellow appeared ahead of them. Vash began preparing a spell, but Gondain waved him down.

"M'aiq," he said. "What are you doing out here?" The figure, revealing himself to be an aged Khajiit, turned to face the two adventurers.

M'aiq shrugged. "M'aiq knows much," he said in a heavy accent, "and tells some. M'aiq knows many things others do not."

"That's great, M'aiq," said Gondain. "Do you know anything about the Thalmor working out here?"

"M'aiq has heard it is dangerous to be your friend," he said, casting a glance at Vash.

"Ah, forget it," said Gondain, moving away. "I shouldn't have bothered asking."

Vash lingered. "Who are you?" he asked.

The Khajiit spoke again. "Some say Alduin is Akatosh. Some say M'aiq is a Liar. Don't you believe either of those things."

Gondain retrod his steps to pull Vash away. "Come on," he urged. "Once he gets started, there's no stopping him."

M'aiq shrugged again. "M'aiq is done talking anyway," he said, unaffected by Gondain's disinterest.

Vash and Gondain walked away, ascending the next slope, steeper than all previous. Piles of stones now marked their path, but disappeared just as quickly as they walked.

"Who was that?" asked Vash, after they'd gone a short distance.

"M'aiq the Liar," said Gondain. "Sometimes he seems to know more than he's telling, other times he seems to be making everything up. He didn't earn that name lightly, though. You shouldn't believe anything he says, as a general rule."

They continued on. Another fallen tree stump marked their route, one that had wrenched a great deal of soil with it when it had fallen. A run-down cabin stood ahead of them, its wooden boards falling off, its little fenced garden overgrown.

"Have you been here before?" asked Vash.

"Yeah," replied Gondain. "There used to be an old woman who lived here, Anise."

Vash poked his head through the doorway. There was no sign of any person, living or dead. "What happened to her?" he asked.

"She was a witch," Gondain said. "I had to kill her before she harvested my organs."

Vash raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. They moved on past the cabin. The slope descended again, and Gondain led them to the left, bringing them to the shore of the beginnings of Lake Ilinalta. On the other side a lone hunter sat fishing from a rock, a small boat pulled up onto dry land, a little tent pitched behind him.

"Hail!" called Gondain, raising a hand in the air. The hunter returned the gesture. "Have you seen any Thalmor or Daedra?" he called.

"No!" returned the hunter, who from the distance they were at they could see was male, and a Redguard. "But there's something weird going on up in Helgen. I been telling ev'ryone to avoid the place."

"My thanks!" called back Gondain. "Good hunting to you, friend."

"Same to you!" replied the hunter, returning his eyes to his fishing pole.

"Damn," said Gondain, his voice returning to its normal pitch as he turned back to Vash. "We're on the wrong side of the river."

"Maybe the others will be back by now," ventured Vash. "If the Thalmor are up in Helgen, we should all head up there together."

"Yeah, alright," replied the Dragonborn. "Perhaps they've been more successful than us. Let's go."

* * *

Returning to the Sleeping Giant Inn, Vash and Gondain discovered both of the other scouting pairs. They all shared their individual stories, Kara spoke of the demonic hound, Vash of M'aiq the Liar, Falin of the amazing view from the falls. Gondain added the hunter's tale of disturbances in Helgen.

"Dar'epha not back?" asked Gondain. The others shook their heads. It was then that their Khajiiti comrade burst through the door, drenched in sweat, her bow strung, breathing heavily. She collapsed on the bench next to Vash.

"Hey Gondain," she said. "How many favours d'you reckon people owe you 'round Skyrim?"

Gondain frowned. He wasn't sure where she was going with such a line of conversation. Either way, she cut him off before he could reply.

"Because you're gonna need to call in all of 'em," she said. "The Thalmor are massing up in Helgen." She paused to take a deep breath. "And I think they're about to open a gate to Oblivion."


	36. The Gathering Storm

The group scattered in every direction. Only Gondain and Antario remained. The latter because it would be dangerous for him to travel, the former because he believed that if the dam were to break, someone would need to be on hand to hold back the tide. If the Thalmor were really constructing a gate to Oblivion they would need all the help they could get to stop them. To that end, Gondain had written a series of letters to give to his companions, calling in favours from everyone he could think of.

Vash went to Winterhold, to gather what mages he could. Those who were more suited to direct combat, he had said, would be his top priority. His journey would take the longest, but could prove most crucial in stopping the Thalmor.

The shortest journey was Falin's, who was only going to Whiterun and back. She sought aid from Jarl Balgruuf and Commander Caius, as well as the Companions of Jorrvaskr. Gondain had made a home in Whiterun, and had revitalised and helped the town in uncountable ways. If any one town would come to his aid, it was Whiterun.

Kureeth had been sent to Solitude, to seek aid from High Queen Elisif, Captain Aldis, and the Imperial Legion, specifically the Dragonborn's old commander Legate Rikke. Despite no longer being an active member of the Legion, Gondain felt sure his old war comrades would help if he asked.

Kara had headed to Windhelm. It had made sense that she'd head to her old hometown. She was to get help from Jarl Brunwulf, along with others that Gondain had helped in his time. He admitted that he'd always felt a little ill at ease in that town, it having been the seat of Stormcloak power during the war, having fought through it with blood and fire during the final siege.

Finally, Dar'epha headed to Riften. The more battle-inclined members of the Thieves Guild were her targets, as well as the fearsome Mjoll, and anyone else she could convince Jarl Maven to give them. The entire group headed north from Riverwood except Dar'epha, who went south, skirting Helgen and taking the snowbound shorter route that cut through the mountains, south of the Throat of the World.

After seeing them off, Gondain returned to the long table inside the Sleeping Giant Inn. He sat down opposite Antario, the Altmer staring at him with an unreadable look.

"What is our course of action," spoke Antario, "if the Thalmor should open their gate to Oblivion before our aid arrives?" His tone was sceptical, he knew what the answer would be but couldn't quite believe that anyone could actually propose such a—

"I'll hold the line myself," replied Gondain, his face firm, leaning both elbows on the table. "You're welcome to join me."

Antario exhaled deeply. The Dragonborn had answered just as he expected. Another question had been nudging at his mind for some time.

"Where are you from?" he asked. "What place produced such an extraordinary figure as the Dragonborn?"

Gondain half-smiled. "I'm from Skyrim," he said.

"But… forgive me," Antario went on, "Your features would indicate a High Rock origin. Were you born in that land?"

Gondain's smile disappeared. "It doesn't matter where you're born," he said forcefully. "I became who I am when that dragon landed in Helgen. Skyrim made me the Dragonborn."

Antario shrugged, pretended it wasn't of interest to him, and dropped the topic. Before he could think of another, Gondain spoke again.

"Not sure I belong here anymore though," he said.

"What do you mean?" asked Antario. "You are a hero in this province. You have saved countless lives, accomplished feats most would deem impossible—" he was cut off.

"And what thanks do I get?" spat the Dragonborn. "A pat on the back, a ceremonial sword, an honorary title. Then it's on to the next problem, the next bloodbath. The people of Skyrim can't solve their own problems. Well, maybe soon they'll have to."

Antario raised his eyebrows. "You're not thinking of leaving?" he asked.

"Maybe," shrugged Gondain. "Don't know where I'd go."

"Well, you should not journey to the Summerset Isles if you are in search of something better." Antario thought that would capture Gondain's attention, and it did.

"You prefer Skyrim to your own home?" asked Gondain.

"Oh, of course." Antario paused, thinking over his words. "Let me explain. On the surface, the Summerset Isles seems superior to Skyrim in every respect. The streets are cleaner, the cities are organised. Crime is low. The people are respectable and educated. The buildings tower above, marvels of architectural engineering, a concept that seems foreign to the Nords. The nation excels in science, in magic, in literature and art."

"Sounds pretty good to me," said Gondain. But he had an idea of what was coming.

"Ah, it does indeed," continued Antario. "But only on the surface. The Thalmor attempt to impose their ideologies on the entire Dominion, on all of Tamriel. They are less of a political body and more of a fanatical cult. Every mer in the Isles could tell you a tale of someone close to them that has been abducted and interrogated, then 'disappeared'. But they would not tell you such tales, for fear of getting the same treatment themselves. It is in one crucial area that Skyrim excels: that of freedom. Freedom to walk the streets as you wish, freedom to believe in whatever gods you wish, freedom to marry whomever you wish. Skyrim's streets may be filled with excrement and criminals may sprout like weeds, but count yourself lucky, my friend. This is a glorious province, with fine people."

Gondain chuckled. "Sprout like weeds," he said. "I'll have to remember that one. But I take issue with that last part," he continued. "The people are not all 'fine'. Many are ungrateful, more are scum. I see no reason to stay and help them with their petty, self-serving problems anymore."

"But what of the Thalmor?" enquired Antario. "And their Oblivion gate?"

"Oh, I'll see this mission through," said Gondain, pointing a finger at his conversation partner. "I always see a mission through." He hailed Orgnar, and ordered wine for himself. "You want something?" he asked Antario. The Altmer went to shake his head, then thought better of it.

"Mead, if you please," he said. The drinks came, creating a silence over the table. The rest of the inn was still empty. Without Riverwood's resident drunk, the inn was quiet.

"You really like it here?" asked Gondain, after taking a long swig.

"Yes," said Antario. His usually flowery words failed him, he could not think of anything more to say, anything further to add.

"Well," said Gondain. "When I do leave, you can have my house in Whiterun. I won't be coming back for it."

That was something Antario had not been expecting. "Are you sure?" he asked. "I am not sure I would be welcome in Whiterun, especially after what occurred on our last visit."

Gondain waved it away. "They'll calm down eventually," he said, wiping his chin. "Find a new thing to hate. Necromancers. Their neighbours. People without beards. They'll latch onto anything."

"Your friends will miss you," said Antario suddenly. "Dar'epha cares for you greatly, Vash looks up to you. Kara sees you as some sort of demigod."

"They're capable enough," said Gondain. "I'm sure they can cope on their own."

"It is not about whether they can," retorted Antario, "but whether they _want to_."

Gondain shrugged. In truth, his friends, most notably Dar'epha and Vash, were the one area that had given him pause. In the end he had realised that not even they could keep him in Skyrim. All good things had to come to an end, he thought bitterly. But he would miss their company. He'd never met a better thief than his Khajiit friend, never a better mage than his orc friend.

* * *

The afternoon rolled on, and eventually Falin reappeared, half a dozen figures trailing after her into the inn. Gondain knew them all, and while disappointed at the low number, he rose to greet them all individually.

Irileth, Dunmer housecarl to Jarl Balgruuf, had been present when Gondain had killed his first dragon, out at the Western Watchtower. She had stood by as the beast's soul had been torn from its body and absorbed into the Dragonborn. Uthgerd the Unbroken, Nord warrior, burdened by past crimes, still carrying her heavy two-handed sword on her back. She and Gondain had adventured together for a short while, years ago now, back when he'd been younger, untested. Seemed an age ago to both of them, but she had come to his aid, in memory of that time. Gondain shook hands and thanked both of them.

"I would've brought some guards with me," said Irileth. "But Balgruuf can't spare any. Proventus went on and on about how an Oblivion gate wasn't possible." They shared a bitter grin. Balgruuf's steward had always annoyed both of them.

Gondain turned to the Companions of Jorrvaskr. His Companions, technically, as he still held the title of Harbinger, despite his long absence from their hall. Aela the Huntress had come, her face marked with war-paint. The brothers, Farkas and Vilkas, both of whom Gondain had helped cure of their lycanthropy after Kodlak Whitemane's death. And Ria, who had been a new recruit when Gondain had joined, but was now on the verge of being admitted to the Circle. A reminder, realised Gondain, that lives continued even his absence.

"More would have come," said Aela, "but there are some within the Companions who hold a grudge against you for leaving like you did."

Gondain raised an eyebrow. It was to be expected. "When this is done," he said, "I will return and hand over the leadership to you, Aela." She was not surprised. If there was anyone in Jorrvaskr who deserved it, it was her.

The newcomers sat down and ordered drinks, Orgnar thrilled with the new custom. It wasn't long before Kara returned, ahead of time and empty-handed.

"This probably ain't a surprise," she said, "but you are not well-liked in Windhelm. Nobody I talked to wanted to help you, the Jarl gave me a whole series of excuses." Gondain sighed deeply and thanked her anyway, introduced her to those Falin had brought. It was more or less what he had expected.

Evening was beginning to fall when Dar'epha returned, grinning from ear to ear. She'd dragged her recruits through the shortcut again to save time. She'd gone straight to the Guild, gathering up any who could fight and weren't out on jobs; Brynjolf and Karliah, Gondain's fellow Nightingales; Cynric and Niruin the archers; Etienne Rarnis, who Gondain had rescued from the dungeons beneath the Thalmor Embassy; Rune, with his unknown past, and Maul, the street-watcher. One non-Guild member had come, Mjoll the Lioness, another previous adventuring companion of the Dragonborn's. Gondain thanked them all.

"Delvin and Vex send their regards, lad," said Brynjolf in his deep accented voice. "They've come themselves, but someone needs to keep the Guild running." Gondain nodded his understanding. "Oh, and we never got to thank you," Brynjolf went on, "For that lovely manor you gave us in Solitude. Beautiful piece of architecture, that."

"Sit yourselves down," said Gondain. "Orgnar will get you drinks." He signalled for the bartender. Karliah looked around the now considerably more populated inn.

"We still waiting on more?" she asked.

Gondain nodded. "I've got more people coming in Solitude and Winterhold, hopefully."

"It's good to see you," added Karliah. "Been a while since you've been down in the Flagon."

"I'll be back soon," Gondain promised. "For one last time." Karliah gave him a strange look at that comment, but didn't say anything, clapping him on the shoulder and moving away to get herself a drink.

Vash was next, about an hour later, the last rays of the sun vanishing over the mountains to the west. He'd brought Faralda, the College's resident expert in Destruction magic, as well as two who had been students when Vash had joined, but were now accomplished mages in their own right: J'zargo and Brelyna Maryon. Vash apologised for not being able to convince more, but Gondain waved it away. Mages were worth a dozen good fighters, he told him.

Finally, another hour later, came Kureeth, looking exasperated from having to talk so much. He had brought more Guild members from Proudspire Manor: Thrynn, Dirge, Sapphire, and Ravyn Imyan. He'd also managed to locate Jordis the Sword-Maiden, Gondain's old housecarl, and drag her out of retirement to fight alongside her old Thane once more.

"This is a one-time thing," Jordis assured Gondain. "I can't be away from the children much longer than this."

Kureeth had also brought Legate Rikke, along with five soldiers of the Imperial Legion, all of whom Gondain addressed by name. Vodus, Miles, Hulgar, Casscia, Raddin. Gondain shook hands with them all, greeting them fondly like the old war comrades they were.

Gondain did a quick head-count. Thirty-five, including his original comrades and himself. He hoped that it would be enough. He pushed through them to get to the bar, Antario throwing him an _I told you so _smile on the way. Orgnar thanked him for the best lot of business he'd seen in years as he climbed on top of the bar. He said nothing, but gradually the gathered comrades noticed him and grew quiet, their eyes on him.

He drew out the silence for a moment. His eyes scanned all who had come to his aid. A disreputable bunch, to be sure, but a skilled one. If only the rest of Skyrim was filled with such good people as this, he thought.

"My friends," he called out to them. "Thank you all for coming. It is a debt that most likely can never be repaid."

"Happy to help!" shouted Farkas. There was a chorus of 'ayes' and nods.

"You've helped all us out, lad," said Brynjolf from near the front. "It's time we returned the favour." Gondain nodded solemnly.

"But it is not just a favour to me," he said. "It is a favour for Skyrim herself! The Thalmor are massing in Helgen, seeking to launch destruction upon this land. They seek to open a gate to Oblivion! To unleash hell upon us!" A silence fell over the crowd. A smile spread across Gondain's face. This would be a fight to remember.

"Well I say," he said, leaving a dramatic gap, looking out over the assembled warriors, rogues and mages, with their swords, axes and bows, from all walks of life, all corners of Skyrim. "I say that we unleash hell on them!"


	37. Assault on Helgen

Before the Thalmor set up their basecamp in the ruins of Helgen, the town was known for one thing: the site of the first dragon attack of the age, where the Dragonborn was first revealed to the world. It would be the Dragonborn who would add another item to the history of the town: the day his mismatched force descended on the town to drive out the Thalmor and stop them from opening a gate to Oblivion.

Gondain decided to split their forces and come at the Thalmor from as many directions as possible. Still standing on the bar of the Sleeping Giant Inn, he issued his instructions.

"There's a back entrance into Helgen's Keep," he said. "The Thalmor are probably holed up inside, we can surprise them from behind. Dar'epha, take some of the Guild up through there." His eyes moved over the candidates. "Brynjolf, Etienne, Rune, Thrynn, Sapphire. Falin, you'd best go with them, in case they need magic support." The Bosmer nodded, her husband's eyes directing a question at Gondain. "Yes, Kureeth, you go with them too. I'll show you the entrance, then head back to lead one of the other attacks. Those that I've mentioned, get yourselves ready, you'll need to leave first. Try not to be spotted unless it's absolutely necessary."

Dar'epha, Falin, Kureeth, and the chosen Guild members finished their drinks and stood up, stretching their limbs and readying their weapons. That left twenty-seven, Gondain counted. Enough for some surprise ground attacks. Helgen had three gates; he meant to use all of them. Dividing the groups was another challenge. It would be wise to keep the Imperial soldiers away from Kara, as well as the Guild away from those lawkeepers like Mjoll and Irileth.

"Kara," he said. Her eyes snapped up to meet his. "I need you to lead a group cross-country, cut a wide loop around Helgen and come at it from the east."

She knew the country well enough. There'd been a Stormcloak camp in the area, back when she'd been a part of that force. When the camp was raided, she'd gone to ground in the surrounding countryside. She knew it as well as she knew anywhere. How the Dragonborn knew that, she had no idea.

"Cross-country?" she asked, cursing the unnecessary comment as soon as it passed her lips.

"Yes," Gondain replied. "We need to come at them from every available direction. Secure the gate and meet up with the group coming through the north gate. Take…" he looked around the inn again. "Jordis and Uthgerd. Cynric and Niruin for ranged support. Get to high ground if you can. I'll try and take the tower for that purpose. Take Maul and Dirge too. Faralda and Antario for magic."

That left eighteen. Enough for the last two teams.

"Vash," directed Gondain. "You'll lead the north team. You'll take the Companions and the rest of the Guild. Aela, Farkas, Vilkas, Ria, Ravyn, Karliah."

Vash nodded, his team gathering around him, introducing themselves to each other in murmured tones. Gondain would rather have had his orc friend with him, but he needed someone he could trust leading each team, and they were low on mages.

He finalised his instructions. "The last of you will be with me," he said, "coming from the west. Mjoll, Irileth, Rikke and your men. J'zargo and Brelyna will be our magic support. Our objective will be to take the tower. Once we have that under our control, our archers can form up on the roof and rain down arrows on the Thalmor. Kara and Vash's teams, your gates are close together. Meet up and attempt to take the courtyard, securing it for Dar'epha's team when they exit the Keep. I'll have Brelyna or J'zargo send up a blue light when I've secured the tower. Archers to me when you see that. We'll wait for Kara's team to get in position, they'll take the longest to get around. When you do," he explained, turning to Kara, "have one of your mages send up a red light. That means we attack. Understood?"

There was another chorus of 'ayes' and nods, more subdued this time from the seriousness of their task. Drinks were downed, and weapons readied.

"If you fall, we will remember you," said Gondain. "Skyrim will remember you." He dropped off the bar with a thunk. "Let's go!" he yelled.

* * *

The Dragonborn had pointed Dar'epha in the direction of a path that did not even seem to be that, an overgrown gap in the landscape that wound up the hill. Still, she led her team up it, turning a corner to see the hole in the rock that was the back way into Helgen's Keep. She kept low, but unable to see anyone on guard, she ushered her team up behind her and into the cleft.

Only one way forward, Gondain had said. Dar'epha was thankful for that, it would not have done to become lost in a cave system while the others fought on up above without them. The descent into the cave was steep and narrow, forcing the group into single file. Dar'epha led, and had directed Brynjolf, arguably the most experienced of the team – certainly the oldest – to take the rearguard.

The ground remained uneven for some time, dipping down and rising up, the passage twisting from left to right. As they turned a corner a gap in the rock let a shaft of moonlight in. A large cavern opened up before them, with a small river trickling through it. Empty, apart from the remnants of what looked like a bear's lair, long abandoned. They moved on. The passage narrowed again, sloping steeply upwards. Dar'epha had flashes of imagination, picturing Gondain fleeing down these tunnels, a younger man, a less experienced man, running from the chaos above.

She turned to look at her team as the next cavern came nearer. Rune was slipping a bolt into a plain-looking crossbow. She shot him a disapproving look.

"What?" he asked. "It goes right through most armour."

"Sure," she said, holding up her own longbow in comparison. "But I can get off six with this while you reload. Don't let it get you killed."

He grinned, nodded, and they continued. The next cavern turned out to be filled with spider-webs, hanging from the ceiling and stretching from rock to rock, eggs clustered in dark corners. No spiders in sight, though. They moved forward again, taking a left alongside the little river, its downstream end vanishing in a gap in the rock to their right, to reappear in the lower cavern. Dar'epha leapt lightly from stone to stone, clearing the water and coming up dry on the other side. The other Guild members followed her example. Falin and Kureeth were more careful, but managed just fine.

There they found signs of humanity, a large set of stone steps ascending into a tunnel that had clearly been carved out by man rather than nature. Dar'epha ordered her team to silence, although they hadn't been speaking a great deal anyway.

"If we're going to find them, this is where they'll start," she whispered. "Be on your guard." Weapons were drawn, arrows were nocked, and they moved forward. But they found no Thalmor, not on the wooden bridge across the gap in the floor, not in the room with its stone bridge in front of a small waterfall. There was a large chest in that room too; Sapphire took a look inside. It opened without needing its lock picked, and she shrugged up at Dar'epha and rejoined the group.

"Nothing but a rusting sword," she said. They moved on, slower and more carefully. It was impossible that the Thalmor were unaware of these tunnels entirely, Dar'epha reasoned. Soon enough they came to what appeared to be a broken wall, clambouring through to reveal the Keep's dungeon. The first level was empty, hanging cages filled only with bits of old bones. But there was fresh blood on the floor, and as they ascended the narrow stairs to the next level, Dar'epha and Rune had their respective bows trained on the light ahead.

A long dank hall followed, with cells on either side. Three were empty, but the fourth had a decomposing corpse in it. Dar'epha wrinkled her nose and silently gestured to her team. Her ears had picked up the scuffing of boots on stone, along with low voices. There were people around the corner. She took a peek, then retreated. Four Thalmor, and one quietly gibbering prisoner in a thick-barred cage. She nodded at Rune, and they stepped out as one, taking out one each, the blood spurting across the Altmer's black robes. The third was in elven armour, but Etienne went into a dive-roll, coming up at the end of it with a throwing knife that he launched into the Thalmor's face. The fourth, also in armour, tried to run, yelling.

"Ambush!" he screamed, heading for the stairs. "Ambush in the dungeon!" Falin wrapped him in a paralysis spell and he collapsed. Kureeth cleared the distance in a heartbeat and crushed the Altmer's skull with two well-placed stomps. Brynjolf whistled appreciatively.

"D'you think they heard us?" asked Rune.

Dar'epha turned her face upwards, her ears twitching as she picked up the sounds of running feet and yelling above them.

"We need to get above-ground," she said. "I think our time's just run out."

* * *

It had taken far less time than Kara had thought it would to lead her team around to Helgen's eastern gate. Crouching behind a rockface, she could lean out and see the large double wooden doors of the gate, and the covered walkway that ran above it. Two Thalmor stood on the walkway, talking to each other, both dressed in elven armour. She could make out more signs of activity in the town beyond. Antario edged up beside her.

"The other teams should be in position by now," he whispered, "And Dar'epha will be well on her way up through the Keep. We should launch the signal."

Kara ground her teeth. The moment she'd been dreading. "Alright," she said. She turned to her team. "This is it," she said. They drew their weapons. "Faralda, launch the signal." The Altmer mage nodded, preparing the spell and hurling it into the sky, casting a wide arc over the town below. They charged.

"Archers!" yelled Kara. "Take the guards!" An explosion and several flashes of light came from the north entrance. Cynric and Niruin, her Guild archers, launched simultaneously, their arrows flying straight into their targets. One of the guards was struck from the walkway and fell to earth beyond, the other staggered and cried out in pain. Antario blasted him away with a bolt. "Mages, the gate!" yelled Kara, approaching the huge wooden doors. Antario and Faralda both cast fireballs, sending bits of flaming gate flying inwards. Kara hurdled the shreds, Jordis and Uthgerd on either side of her. With that, Kara's team entered Helgen.

* * *

Vash had the worst entrance, he discovered. A steep incline led up to his team's assigned gate, with little cover all the way up the hill. Both Masser and Secunda were out, he noticed, lighting their night. His team was crammed behind an outcrop of rock as close as they could get to the town without being spotted. Even getting that far hadn't been easy.

He already had his spells prepared when the signal came. Stepping out from cover, he cast two lightning bolts, one that rippled and jumped, blasting the guards off the covered walkway and collapsed a large section of its roof, the other a concentrated burst that cannoned into the gate and left a gaping hole in its centre, somehow leaving it on its hinges.

"Well, come on then," he said to his astonished team, starting the run up the hill. They fell in behind him, the twins on one side, Aela and Ria on the other, Ravyn and Karliah with bows out behind them. Vash launched two more bolts, one from each hand to clear away the rest of the gate. He hardened his flesh to the level of ebony and summoned a bound spear in his right hand. Leaping over the remnants of the gate he espied a target and hurled it with all his might, the force of the throw taking it through one Thalmor and into a second. Both spurted blood and collapsed.

The town was not as ruined as he'd expected. It seemed the Thalmor had done some cleaning up. Most of the rubble that Gondain had mentioned seemed to be gone, and while the houses were certainly still not habitable, it didn't look bad, for a town that had been devastated by a dragon. There was a crash and some flames, and Kara's team broke through their gate and entered the town. Thalmor were swarming out of the half-destroyed houses, and out of the Keep. Vash summoned a huge bound greatsword he could wield in one hand, and went to meet them.

* * *

Gondain's entrance to Helgen was narrower, a gap in the wall the size of a normal door. The slope was even steeper than what Vash was dealing with. The upside was that the Thalmor had not posted any guards. Perhaps they'd been unable to get up onto the wall because of ruined sections, Gondain mused, or had perhaps not thought the west path deserved a guard. Either way, it meant him and his team could get right up to the wall, pressing themselves up against the stone on either side of the opening. Rikke was opposite him on the right side, he had the left.

When the signal came, the Dragonborn was the first through the doorway. It was clearer than he remembered it from the last time he'd been there, on a reminiscing quest with Hadvar. The Thalmor had cleared away most of the fallen stones and burnt wood that had blocked the archways and paths and forced Gondain to take long routes through the shells of destroyed homes. Unbelievably, the headsman's block still sat where it had sat all that time ago. The ground around it bore heavy scorchmarks, but the block was still there.

"The tower!" he shouted, cleaving his scimitar through a surprised Thalmor warrior. Mjoll and Irileth moved to either side of him, and the Legion soldiers formed a barricade of shields, protecting the two mages. He cleared the distance to the tower quickly, remembering how he'd taken refuge in it while Alduin attacked. If only he'd known what Ulfric would go on to do, he could have saved himself a lot of bother. No point dwelling in the past, he thought.

He decapitated another Thalmor, hearing the crackling of bolts behind him as Brelyna and J'zargo launched spells into their foes. He leapt up the steps into the tower and said three words.

"_Tiid Klo Ul!_" Time slowed to a crawl at the sound of his Voice. The three Thalmor within the base of the tower scrambled to get out of their seats, but moved sluggishly, their limbs moving through the air at a pace that was no match for the Dragonborn. He cut them all down with quick, short slashes. He had learnt to be economic in his actions while under the influence of Slow Time; the duration was always less than he thought it was.

"Get in!" he yelled back at his team as the effects of the Shout dissipated. Irileth and Mjoll were the first to clear the threshold, Brelyna and J'zargo following quickly. One of the Legionnaires, Raddin, fell to a Thalmor fireball, his face consumed by fire, screaming as he died. Rikke led the remained four into the tower. Gondain cursed, and started to climb the stairs.

"J'zargo, Mjoll, with me!" he said. "The rest of you, hold that door!" He ascended the winding stone steps, the Nord woman with her huge sword and the Khajiit with his fireballs at the ready behind him. They passed the huge hole in the wall where Alduin had stuck his head through and blasted flames. At the top of the tower there were four Thalmor, two mages and two warriors, the latter armed with bows, launching arrows down on the Dragonborn's force.

They took them by surprise from behind, Gondain burying his sword through one of the mages. J'zargo launched two of his favourite spells, fireballs, blasting the other mage and a warrior off the tower to their doom below. Mjoll separated the final warrior's head from his shoulders.

"Send up the blue signal," spat Gondain through grinding teeth. "I'll round them up." He descended the stairs three at a time, reached the gap in the wall and jumped through it. He had leapt that gap once before, in ragged clothes with his hands bound, desperately trying to escape a seemingly unbeatable foe. He had hunted that foe to Sovngarde itself and had ended its life. The second time Gondain leapt that gap, he did so as the Dragonborn, his scimitar splattered with red, a warrior in ebony out for blood.

He got it, landing with a heavy roll, coming up with his sword slashing. It bounced off a Thalmor's shield. His foe smiled and came at him, self-sure. The Dragonborn sneered, nipped past the Altmer's guard and used his sword to let the elf's guts see daylight. He booted his dying foe away and set out carving a path out to his friends.

It didn't take long for Gondain and Vash to join up. Kara and Antario soon joined them, their archers and other mages positioned on the tower, the walkways and rooftops, raining arrows and fire down on the scrambling Thalmor. Together, the four companions pushed the battle into the courtyard in front of Helgen's Keep.

It was then that the path to the Hells opened up.

The Thalmor's gateway to Oblivion had been constructed off to the left as one approached the Keep, straight ahead from where Gondain and Vash were. Its opening pulsed with reds and oranges and yellows, echoing a giant, furious eye. A single Thalmor mage stood in front of it, and turned to face the group, his face twisted with anger.

"You fool!" yelled the Thalmor. "You ruin everything! But at last, you will feel the might of the Thalmor! The gate is open, you will never—"

His monologue was interrupted as the Keep's door was kicked outwards. Kureeth emerged, his armour covered in blood. Falin joined him on one side, Dar'epha on the other.

"Sorry we're late," said the Khajiit, blood staining her face.

Vash shrugged and hurled an ice spike through the Thalmor mage's chest. "I'd say you're right on time," he said. With those words, the daedra spewed forth from the gate.

"How do we shut it off?" asked Gondain, as the demons approached. But he was already sure he knew the answer before Vash spoke.

"From the other side," the orc said.

That would be a problem, Gondain realised, as the amount of daedra grew larger. Mostly dremora, he noticed, of all sizes and varieties, along with a huge number of black hellhounds. A flock of bat-like monsters with leathery wings and gnashing teeth soon followed, and they charged to meet them all.

It became clear that their teams were not cut out for this sort of battle, even combined as they were. Two of legionnaires fell almost straight away to the huge sword of a dremora. Maul was torn to pieces by the bat monsters, screaming as his limbs left his body. When Ria saw a fireball whooshing towards Brelyna, she shoved the mage out of the way and took the force of the blast herself. They'd barely even known each other's names.

Gondain saw the lines of battle faltering, and called out to Vash.

"We need to clear this and get through the gate!" he yelled. Vash understood. The orc called out to the other mages, ordering them to prepare a spell and combine it with his on his mark. The Dragonborn stepped out ahead of the line of his comrades and unleashed Unrelenting Force upon the daedra, sending them cascading through the air away from him.

"Now!" Vash called out. He launched his spell, chain lightning. Antario, Falin, Faralda, Brelyna and J'zargo launched the same, combining into a huge array of flashing bursts of light and destruction. The bolts jumped from every enemy to every other enemy at the same time, a labyrinth of energetic force, jumping into the air to reach the bats, frying them all where they stood or hovered multiple times over. When the lights faded, all that was left were ashes.

"There'll be more!" yelled Gondain, rushing to the gate. "Hold the line!" He leapt through the furious eye that opened to Oblivion, and vanished. Dar'epha and Vash took one look at each other, and followed after him. In the temporary lull that had been created, Kureeth laid a gentle hand on his wife's shoulder. She knew exactly what he was about to do.

"You think I'm going to let you go in there on your own?" she asked him. He smiled, and together they jumped through the gate. Antario was next, spells and sword at the ready, stepping lightly through. That left only Kara. She looked around at their gathered forces, bloodied and bedraggled. None of them looked willing to follow in after the others.

"There will be more, I think," she said, wishing she could say something inspiring, something other than just repeating the Dragonborn. "Search the town," she went on, "make sure there aren't any more Thalmor hiding in the ruins. Any demons come out of the gate, kill them. Hold the line." She turned away from their faces, took a deep breath, and ran, jumping with sword drawn, into hell.


	38. Dark of the Evergloam

Dar'epha crossed through the gate and into utter darkness. Peering around her with her heightened Khajiiti eyes revealed very little, vague shapes at undefinable distances. She waved her right arm through the dark, feeling for any sort of object or indicator of location. Her paw found nothing, other than an odd sensation that the air was thicker than usual, requiring a little more effort than usual to push through. She went to take a step, but was halted by a voice.

"_I wouldn't do that if I were you_," it said. A male voice, with a trace of a Cyrodilic accent.

"Why not?" she asked immediately, withdrawing her foot. She tightened her grip on her bow, considering the uselessness of nocking an arrow when she could not see her target.

"_There is a precipice_," said the voice. "_Of sorts. The fall would be inconvenient_."

"Who are you?" she asked, peering futilely through the dark again. "And where are you?"

"_I am everywhere_," said the voice. "_You stand in the Evergloam, realm of Nocturnal, the Mistress of Shadows._" The voice faded momentarily. "_As for who I am, I believe I was known in life as Gallus Desidenius_."

That was a name Dar'epha recognised. "Gallus?" she said. "You were Guild Master, 'fore my time. But you died, Mercer Frey betrayed you. I heard the story."

"_Ah, of course you are a member of the Guild, Nocturnal would send nobody else_," Gallus said, almost to himself. His voice lifted. "_And yes, I am dead. I am one with the shadows. I have come merely so as to provide some form of familiarity for you in this realm._"

"What does Nocturnal want with me?" asked Dar'epha. "I've ain't never been devoted to her like some of the others." She sought the source of Gallus' voice, but could not identify it. He indeed sounded as if he were everywhere.

"_Like your friend Gondain, you mean?_" asked Gallus.

"Gondain?" she exclaimed. "He's not devoted to anythin', daedra or otherwise."

"_And yet, he became a Nightingale_," said Gallus.

"Gondain, a Nightingale?" scoffed Dar'epha. But then, she stopped to think. She'd always believed they were real; the coincidences were too many to discount. She'd had Karliah pegged as one for some time. But Gondain? It made a sort of sense, she had to admit. He had admitted to dealing with most of the Daedric Princes, why not Nocturnal? There was just one problem…

"Gondain swore off dealing with the Daedra," she said.

"_Yes, Nocturnal informed us that the other Princes were most displeased. It is why you are here instead of him_." Gallus sounded almost sad, but it was hard for her to tell.

Dar'epha joined the dots in a matter of seconds.

"Nocturnal wants me to be a Nightingale?" she asked. "I'm flattered, don't get me wrong," she began to speak very fast, her words rushing into each other. "But I ain't cut out for that job. Can't she pick one of the others?"

"_You are the best thief the Guild has, are you not?_" asked Gallus.

"Well now," said Dar'epha. "I ain't one to go blowin' my own horn… but some have been known to say that, yeah."

"_You have a sense of honour, a moral code_," Gallus went on. "_You are loyal. Gondain is not. At least not to Nocturnal, I cannot speak of his other lives. You are his obvious replacement_."

Dar'epha ransacked her mind for everything she'd heard about the Nightingales, filtering it through to find another objection, any objection.

"Don't Nightingales serve for life?" she asked, finding something.

"_Traditionally, yes_," answered Gallus. "_But Gondain is the first to cast off his office in a way that has not brought the wrath of Nocturnal down upon him. The motives of the Mistress of Shadows are not for mortals to judge._"

Dar'epha remembered the reason she was there and cursed herself for taking so long to bring it up. People could've been dying right then, she realised, outside the gate. "Can she shut the gate? I would like to go back to a world that ain't full of demons."

"_I do not know_," replied Gallus. "_Regardless, you will have to speak to her if you wish to leave this realm._"

"Right," said Dar'epha. "Let's get on with that, then. But oh," she added with deliberate pause, "how am I supposed to go find Nocturnal if I can't even see my fuckin' paw in front of my face?"

"_I shall guide you_," said Gallus. He hesitated before continuing, as if the talking was wearing him out. "_Turn to your right and walk in a straight line. Keep a hand outstretched, you will come to a door. Push it open_."

Dar'epha followed the dead thief's instructions, feeling her way with each step. Her usual surefootedness was torn away from her in this realm, she realised. She trod carefully, with her eyesight gone, she relied on her other senses to guide her. She felt the door and pushed through, a small level of blissful light reaching her eyes.

"Does this place have a name?" she asked, leaving the door open behind her, blinking rapidly to adjust to the new level of light. She was in a small bare room, all grey stone. A stairway extended upwards opposite the door. The light did not appear to have a discernible source, but she was thankful for it all the same.

"_If you were in any other part of this realm, I would say no_," said Gallus. "_But you stand in the Shade Perilous, the only named region of the Evergloam, and the most prized. Its history is… somewhat bloody._"

"My favourite kind," said Dar'epha, heading up the stairs, still moving slowly so as not to trip. Looking at the shadows, she saw they seemed to be more solid than air, although when she passed through there was only mild resistance, like she had felt when she first arrived.

"Gallus," she ventured, continuing up the stairs, "You said you were everywhere? Is that you I'm feelin' when I touch the shadows?"

"_In a way, yes_," said Gallus. "_When a Nightingale dies, they become one with the shadows. When you walk in them, you are aided by every Nightingale that has ever lived, as are all those with Nocturnal's favour_."

Dar'epha made a humming sound, thinking it over. "So that's why the Guild has such good luck. Walking with the shadows. Kinda poetic, huh?"

Gallus remained silent. Dar'epha kept on climbing the stairs, getting used to the twilight, able to move with greater speed from one stone step to the next. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity of blank stone walls, the steps ended, and she entered a wide room with a circular pool in the centre. A viscous blue-black liquid swirled within. Silence reigned over the dim room. Looking up, Dar'epha saw the room did not appear to have a ceiling, at least not one that she could see. The walls instead climbed upwards, growing harder and harder to see until they vanished completely into darkness.

When Dar'epha looked back down, Nocturnal was floating above the pool. Although the Daedric Princes were not restrained by the gender binaries of mortals, her figure was clearly feminine beneath her hooded and flowing robe.

"Gallus has filled you in," spoke the Daedra. It was not a question. "He has left out what usually brings mortals around: the rewards. That is what you really want to know, is it not? How being a Nightingale shall benefit you, how it shall make you more powerful. That is what all you mortals want; more power." The white flash of a grin became visible in the shadows of Nocturnal's hood. "It is a desire the Daedra share."

Dar'epha could think of nothing to say. For the first time in her life, she was struck speechless.

"The Agents of Nocturnal are unseen," the Night Mistress went on. "Accept this title, and you will walk unseen through the night. Your enemies will turn on each other, their life force will bolster your own. The Nightingales are good thieves before they serve me, after, they are the best. Thieves and criminals all over the land will live in awe of you, tell tales of your mythic deeds."

"Sounds pretty good," said Dar'epha. "What's in it for you?"

Nocturnal smiled again. "Only one thing," she said. "Don't let anyone into my Sepulcher."

"That sounds do-able," said Dar'epha. "I'll do it."

"Of course you will," replied the Daedra. "Choose an aspect and begone, I have business elsewhere and your manner is tiring."

"One thing before I do," cautioned Dar'epha. "Can you close the gate?"

"The gate you entered through?" enquired Nocturnal, her voice laced with tiredness. "No, I cannot. It is beyond my sphere." With that she vanished, leaving only the twilight. Gallus' voice emanated from the shadows once again.

"_Karliah and Brynjolf will induct you in the traditional manner upon your return_," he said. "_Choose the aspect of your agency, and you shall be returned to your realm._" He hesitated and then added, "_Be advised that it is unwise to ask many boons of the Mistress of Night. Her motives are—_"

"Not for us to question," finished Dar'epha. "Yeah, I got that. What are these aspects? Is it permanent?"

"_On the floor_," said Gallus. Dar'epha looked down, and sure enough, there they were. Three symbols spaced at even intervals around the pool; a crescent moon, a half moon, and a full moon. "_This pool exists upon Tamriel, in the Sepulcher_," continued Gallus. "_You may choose another aspect there, though only one at any one time. The crescent moon represents the Agent of Shadow, who can manipulate the darkness to become invisible. The half-moon represents the Agent of Subterfuge, who can turn their enemies against one another. The full moon represents the Agent of Strife, who can drain the life force of others_."

Dar'epha circled the pool, examining the three symbols. "Nocturnal didn't exactly seem thrilled about the whole thing," she said.

"_Do not take offence_," said Gallus. "_It is merely her way_."

Dar'epha made a disapproving noise. "I choose the Agent of Shadow," she said. She hesitated before reaching for it. "Don't suppose I'll ever you again, huh?"

"_It is unlikely_," agreed Gallus. "_These are extraordinary circumstances_."

"In that case," said Dar'epha. "It's been nice knowin' you." She reached for the crescent moon symbol and felt something tug at her insides when her paw touched its surface.

"_The pleasure_," said Gallus, his voice fading with every word, "_has been all mine. Good luck_."

The journey into Oblivion had been a sensation similar to stepping out of building into the night. For Dar'epha, the journey back was like being thrown through a window and into a lake. It was still night in Helgen. It wasn't until she was flung back through the gate that she realised how pleasantly warm it had been in the Evergloam. The night in the mountain town was cold, and she was forced to screw her eyes shut against the glare of the moonlight, shining down on her as if it knew how annoying it was to her at that moment.

Strong hands pulled her to her feet and she looked up to see Brynjolf's face. His hair and beard were matted with blood but he appeared otherwise exactly as he always did. A smile crept across his face as she looked at him.

"Welcome back, lass," he said.


	39. The Blood of All Kinds

Antario crossed through the gate and stumbled in the dirt. He stood up and dusted himself off, feeling his magicka start to regenerate from the exertions of the fight at Helgen, and used the moment to investigate his surrounds. He was on a floating platform of rock suspended above an endless expanse of bubbling lava. His platform was some distance above the lava and safe from its blistering heat, which he could feel if he peered over the edge. There was nothing in sight, no landforms, no lifeforms. There was also no discernible method of suspension for his platform, Antario noticed. He wondered if the laws of gravity applied in the realms of Oblivion.

His Akaviri sword was still in his right hand and he used it to prod at the surface of the rock around him. It seemed stable enough. He threw his hood back to better cope with the heat. The next step would be to determine his location. Clearly the others had ended up somewhere else, as he was completely alone. The Deadlands, perhaps, or The Pits. Then he saw the sky, and he had no doubt. It was filled with rolling black and grey clouds all the way to the horizon, tossing and turning like a restless giant. Bursts of lightning flashed across almost constantly, but there was not a drop of rain. Antario knew where he was at that moment. Attribution's Share. The Realm of Boethiah, Prince of Deceit. If he had been brought here, Antario realised, then that could only mean—

Suddenly, Boethiah was there. Androgynously garbed, in loose blue-and-gold pants and tunic with a billowing black cape, that could have concealed anything, or nothing. A face that could have been any gender, and could have passed for half the races of Tamriel. The face of deception personified. A deceiver of nations, if the legends could be believed. Antario had a feeling that they could.

"You're _right_ on time," said Boethiah. "_Yours_ is the third bout. _Here_, the first is _just_ about to begin. _Observe_." The Daedra's voice had an odd cadence to it, frequently emphasizing words that did not seem to need it.

The horizon itself seemed to move. Antario staggered, but did not fall from his platform. When he looked up, there were other floating platforms at the same height as his, arranged in a circle around a larger, slightly lower circular platform. Antario recognised the arrangement from the writings of the Champion of Cyrodiil.

"This is the Tournament of Ten Bloods," he breathed. He looked at the other small platforms, saw the figures like his own standing upon them. However, a quick count revealed a total of sixteen platforms instead of ten.

"Yes, of _course_ it is," said Boethiah, face crinkled with annoyance. "Though I grew _so_ _bored_ with the previous set-up. I've made some _additions_ to the usual ten races of Tamriel. Some _new blood_. The Sload are represented, as are the Falmer. _But_ what I'm most proud of are our Akaviri _friends_. And _you_ have one of their swords! _How delightful!_"

Yet the Daedra's voice contained not a shred of delight. More vicious and menacing, thought Antario.

"You're one of the _lucky ones_," grinned Boethiah with sharpened teeth. The gaps between them seemed to descend into a bottomless pit. Antario was sure he could see grasping arms deep within that grin, desperately, futilely trying to reach salvation. "Paired with _the orc_ in the first round," Boethiah finished, after a gap that went on for an age.

"_LET US BEGIN!_" called out the Daedra. Two of the small rock platforms descended from their positions, meeting the edge of what Antario now realised was to be the arena. The two combatants disembarked their platforms. Antario strained his eyes examining them.

"Can't _see?_" asked Boethiah. "Then let's get a _closer look!_" All of the smaller platforms suddenly lurched forward and down, closer to the arena. Regaining his balance, Antario could see the two figures circling each other were like nothing he had ever seen on Tamriel. The first was covered in golden scales, humanoid only from the waist up, with a reptilian face that at first glance was similar to an Argonian. But as he looked back up at the Argonian's platform for reference, he saw that this creature's face was more snake than lizard. This was certainly the case with its lower half, which slithered thickly across the rock. Below the waist, the creature was a snake. As it moved, it seemed to shimmer, its golden scales moving and rearranging themselves. Antario blinked, and the creature stood on two legs. It held two curved blades like Antario's, one in each hand, both of significantly higher quality than his.

"Admiring my Tsaesci?" asked Boethiah. "_All _the way from Akavir! A _real pain to obtain_, I can tell you _that_. Monsters _of legend_!" The Daedra collapsed into cackling laughter.

"What is its opponent?" ventured Antario.

The Prince of Plot's laughter stopped abruptly. "The Kamal, _yes_," he said. "Most _ferocious_. Also from Akavir, although I found _this particular_ one frozen on the shores of Atmora. _Entirely _lost and alone. Did him a favour, _really_." The Kamal was small and white, full of protruding horns and spikes, and was not handling the heat of the realm well. It was visibly distressed, glancing rapidly all over the scene, chattering something untranslatable. It carried no weapon but its sharp teeth and claws.

"I thought Atmora was uninhabited," said Antario.

"You thought _wrong_," smiled Boethiah, his lips thankfully not parting.

The Tsaesci yelled something towards its opponent, who did not reply. The snake-being lunged forward with its twin swords at a speed Antario's eyes struggled to follow. Within a heartbeat, the Kamal's head was separated from its shoulders. Silence reigned over the arena.

"_Oh,_ _poor form_!" yelled Boethiah. "At least put up a good fight! Such a _shame_," he went on, turning back to Antario, "After _all the trouble_ I went through to get him." He landed languidly on the platform next to Antario. "I wonder who's up_ next?_" he said, his voice barely able to contain his excitement.

Antario frowned. "But this is your realm," he said. "Did you not arrange all this?"

The Goddess of Destruction pouted. "_Well,_ there's no need to _ruin _it like that," she said, swinging her lengthening hair out of her eyes, swaying her fluid form. She clasped her hands together and looked Antario up and down. "I like to fly by the seat of my _pants_," she said. "How about _you_, elf?"

"Why are you talking to me and not the others?" asked Antario. Boethiah was infamous for many things, but being straightforward and honest was not one of them. He trying to be careful not to be affected by everything she was saying.

The Daedra grinned again, revealing the void. "I'm _sure_ you can work that one out," she said.

"This is your realm," repeated Antario, trying to work his brain around the absence of logic that pervaded Oblivion. "I suppose," he said, "you could theoretically be talking to everyone at the same time. You would certainly be capable of that here." Antario looked around at the other small platforms and the figures on them. Many did seem to be engaged in conversations with the air. Boethiah did a small clap.

"_Bravo_," she said. "You're _the_ _first_ to become aware of it. _Now_, the next fight."

The Tsaesci had returned to its platform. The next two descended the now shorter distance to the arena. An Argonian and a Khajiit stepped off. The Argonian was imposing, tall with bulging muscles. He wore simple clothes, a sleeveless tunic, light pants, the thick gloves and boots of a worker. In contrast to the Tsaesci, his scales were a dull black, with pale curved horns curling around his earholes. His weapon was a simple long-handled hammer that he held loosely in one hand, tapping the head on his ankle with a gentle rhythm. The Khajiit was smaller and wiry, holding a small ebony dagger in each hand. Her left ear was missing, and the fur along much of the same side bore scorchmarks. She wore bedraggled leathers and furs.

"You _wouldn't_ know it," said Boethiah, "but _these_ two are notorious in their own lands_._"

The two combatants circled each other warily. The Khajiit was clearly trying to work out a way to take down her opponent without getting hit by his hammer. The Argonian was merely waiting for her to give it a try. When she did try, she came in low and from her foe's right. She was fast and experienced, but the hammer thudded into her head and knocked her to the ground. The Argonian, instead of delivering another blow that could have killed her, moved back, giving her room to rise. She did so, cradling one hand against her head, feeling the blood seep out from the wound and trickle down her neck.

Boethiah laughed. "He's drawing it _out!_" she said, like it was the greatest surprise she had heard in all her life. The Khajiit, moving much slower now, came at the Argonian again; whose expression displayed no emotion. She staggered forward, lunging and stabbing with both daggers, but the hammer thudded down again, caving another way into her skull. She slumped face-first on the stone surface of the arena. The Argonian prodded at her with his boot and provoking no reaction, snorted displeasure and brought the hammer down for a third time, reducing his foe's skull to bloody pieces.

"Oh, bravo! _Bravo!_" called Boethiah. "Still _much _too short though. I _hope_ you were paying attention," she said to Antario. "You could be up against him soon enough. _Who knows_ what could _happen!_"

"Will you close the gate if I win?" asked Antario. "Do you have that power?"

Boethiah's teeth split again, the void beyond raging with fires. Their points grew sharper, and her form changed, her robes changing to black armour, her cape shifting from black to red. Her face changed, grew battlescars and a thick black beard. When the Deceiver of Nations spoke, it was with a booming voice that echoed across the eternal sea of bubbling lava, a voice that emerged from every corner of the realm.

"Power," he said. "_WHAT DO YOU CALL THIS?_" The lava spluttered and died, crawling back into cracks in the ground below. In its place grew green grass and rolling hills, beginning at one end of the horizon and proceeding under the arena and beyond. A splintering crash, and there were trees, thick trunks stretching up into the sky, in which the storms had cleared to be replaced by a clear blue expanse dotted with puffy white clouds. All around them, white stone buildings began to emerge, towers and castles and palaces, perfect in every detail, floating higher than the trees, connected to each other by arching white bridges, spanning the huge gaps with no supports. The towers twisted and turned on themselves in impossible knots, with upside-down walkways and sideways rooms. The rock platforms and the arena became white stone also, exquisitely put together. All of the summoned combatants on their platforms felt themselves gripped and hauled into the air, Antario included. The Altmer was thrown bodily into the arena.

He kept a wary eye on the Argonian, who still stood clutching his hammer over the body of the Khajiit, staring wide-eyed at the utter transformation that had taken place in their environment.

"_YOU MORTALS KNOW NOTHING OF POWER!_" bellowed the Daedra, his bearded visage slipping into something demonic as he roared each word. "_Why would I want your pathetic world, with its pestilent beings and power-grabbing factions? You are nothing! Nothing but dust in my eyes. Win the tournament and you may ask your boon. Pray that your death is short. Pray that your death is quiet._ _Cleave the unworthy from this plane and you may have your desire. Perhaps by then you will have shown the mettle to use what I can give you._" All the combatants fell back to their platforms, gasping for air.

"_Fight!_" bellowed Boethiah.

Up on his platform, the summoned Breton, terrified out of his mind, loaded the crossbow that was his weapon and launched a bolt into the Sload that occupied that platform next to his. The slug creature spat blood, let out a horrific scream, and died. Boethiah burst out laughing.

"That is _exactly_ the sort of person I need _more of!_" he shouted. "But I'm afraid I can't let you pull the same trick _twice_." The smaller platforms came crashing down to the level of the arena. The motion caused the Bosmer to fall off, vanishing below into the trees. Thin stone bars extended around them, turning them into domed cages, too slow to stop the falling elf.

"Oh _dear_," said Boethiah. "Looks like we're _down_ to thirteen. Twelve, when _this_ fight is done." The Argonian and his hammer were dragged across the arena to his caged platform, the bars opening to let him in and closing after he was inside. "Altmer," announced the Daedra, "meet Falmer." He pointed to a cage and it opened, the blind stunted mer stepping into the arena, a vicious axe in its hand.

"You said I was fighting the orc," protested Antario, although it seemed an age ago that the Daedra had said that.

"I _lied_," replied Boethiah.

The Falmer had heard Antario's voice and leaped towards him, axe raised above his head. Antario stood his ground and blasted his foe across the arena with a lightning bolt. Smoking, the twisted shadow of an elf rose and came at him again. This time Antario waited until the last second, then slammed a fireball into the Falmer's chest. He plunged his sword through the charred remains of the Falmer's head, and was thrown across the arena into his cage, the bars closing around him. Boethiah, floating next to the enclosure, sneered at him.

Up next was the Breton with his crossbow, dressed in the studded armour and leathers that marked him as a bandit, with filthy hair and a face caked with dirt. His opponent was a creature that reminded Antario of the Imga of Valenwood. Boethiah introduced it as a Tang Mo, from Akavir. It was large and hulking, with black fur covering most of its body, with silver streaks on its back. Its face was almost human. Its eyes contained intelligence as it assessed the threat of the Breton. Disregarding him as puny, the beast charged, dropping to all fours to lope across the arena towards him. The Breton loosed a bolt, taking the creature in the chest. The Tang Mo slumped to the ground, letting out a low grunt of pain. Slowly but surely, the great ape started to rise, reaching for the bolt and pulling it loose. Antario's eyes widened. Boethiah's grin widened. The Breton began to hurriedly load another bolt.

Fumbling with the mechanics of his weapon, the Breton looked up, seeing the huge creature bearing down on him. The bolt slotted into place. He pulled the trigger and dived to the right. The bolt flew true, burying itself in the Tang Mo's forehead. It roared, and slumped to the stones again, never to rise. The Breton breathed a sigh of relief as he was carried through the air back to his cage.

"_Not_ bad," pondered Boethiah, "for a last minute _replacement_." Antario opened his mouth to ask, but the Daedra anticipated him and continued. "_Your_ friend Gondain _was_ to be joining us, but it _seems_ he's ended up in a different realm. I took _you_ instead. I _fried_ my original Altmer like a side of _beef_. It meant I _just had to_ find a replacement Breton. The _little man_ with the crossbow you _just_ saw."

Antario pondered where his friends could have ended up. Gondain had sworn off dealing with the Daedra, had he lied? Or had one of the most powerful Princes drawn him into their realm in revenge? If so, he was most likely in for a bad time. But where had the others gone? Were some of them together, or were they all apart? Antario scanned the other cages and realised that Gondain would have made short work of all of these opponents.

The next fight was between the orc and the Dunmer. The orc was as huge as the Argonian had been and was clad in the spiked armour of his people, including the open-faced helmet. His beard was long and knotted, and streaks of red war-paint made diagonal stripes across his face. His weapon was a huge dwarven battle-axe, a monolithically heavy weapon that he wielded with ease. The Dunmer was smaller, dressed only in a loincloth, and carried a single glass dagger. His red eyes flickered with the joy of the oncoming fight. Antario frowned. Such an obvious mismatch, something else must be going on, he thought.

His misgivings were validated when the Dunmer held up his left hand, cradling a spell, and vanished. The orc looked all around the arena, swinging wildly with his battle-axe, finding nothing.

"Face me, coward!" bellowed the orc. There was a thunk, and the Dunmer appeared, having leapt from behind the orc to land with one foot on each of his opponent's shoulders.

"No," said the Dunmer, reaching down to drive his dagger through the orc's eye and into his brain. The dark elf leapt clear of the thrashing orc, landing with bent legs a safe distance away. The orc collapsed with his limbs spasming madly. The Dunmer watched in silence as his foe passed through the throes of death and beyond.

Boethiah clapped loudly. "Isn't he _extraordinary?_" exclaimed the Daedra. "He was _rotting_ in a Stormhold cell when I found him, _waiting_ to be _executed_. Perhaps he'll kill _you_ next." Antario decided not to respond to that one, though he was cataloguing his possible opponents, assessing strengths and weaknesses.

"Just one more fight, then we're on to the next round," added Boethiah. Two more cages opened. A humanoid figure, who, by process of elimination, Antario reckoned as the Imperial, stepped out of the first, dressed in elaborate shining steel armour with a golden cape. On one arm he carried a glistening golden shield, with the other hand he drew a shining steel longsword. His helmet was full so his face could not be seen, but he walked with confidence towards his opponent. The opponent in question was the final Akaviri warrior, and seemed to Antario to be at least as dangerous as the Tsaesci. From the descriptions he knew, this could only be one of the Ka Po'Tun. The tiger warriors striving towards dragonhood. The feline warrior resembled a Khajiit in some respects, although his fur was shades of deep red and orange, slashed with black stripes. His armour was scaled and black, segmented so as to allow him greater movement, at the cost of several unprotected spots. He wore no helm, letting his ferocious features be shown to the realm. He wielded a single two-handed blade curved in the same fashion as Antario's, but much longer. Antario tore his eyes away as he realised something.

"This is the last fight for the round?" he asked, even though he had promised himself he would no longer engage with the Daedric Prince. "But the Nord and the Redguard have not fought yet."

"_Indeed_," said Boethiah. "They were to fight the Sload and the Bosmer, who have _both unfortunately_ met their _demise_." The Prince of Plots seemed positively overjoyed at that fact. "With no opponents, they both _advance _to the _next round_."

In the arena, the Imperial, who was clearly some sort of champion wherever he heralded from, seemed content to circle around his foe, sizing up his strength. The Ka Po'Tun was not so content. Scything forward, the Akaviri's blade hammered a deep dent in the Imperial's shield, then knocked against his helmet, staggering him to the side. The Ka Po'Tun danced back. He was fast, as fast as the Tsaesci had been, perhaps faster. The Imperial came on the attack, his shield up, his shining sword swinging down. The Ka Po'Tun turned it aside with his own blade, then hammered the point home through the Imperial's chest, yanking it out and repeating the manoeuvre in his foe's head. Blood spurted, and the Imperial champion collapsed. The Ka Po'Tun wiped his blade on the fallen man's cloak, and retreated voluntarily to his cage.

"_ON TO ROUND TWO!_" announced Boethiah. The dead bodies that been gathering in the arena, the Kamal, the Khajiit, the Falmer, the Tang Mo and the Imperial, all crumbled to dust, as did all the empty cages. Eight combatants remained.

The first to fight were those who had not already: the Redguard and the Nord. The Redguard, to Antario's surprise, was a woman, dressed in the wrapped robes of Hammerfell, wielding a scimitar and a small circular iron shield. A single whisper of black hair escaped her hood, trailing in a summoned wind. The Nord was much like the sort Antario had come to despise during his time Skyrim; large, hairy, and unclean, in rusting iron armour and wielding a large steel greatsword. But his face displayed only terror.

"No," muttered the Nord. "No, I won't die here, can't die here. Have to get out, gotta get out."

"There is only one way out," said the Redguard, swishing her sword as she approached. "Victory."

"No," breathed the Nord, his eyes darting around at something unseen to all others. He dropped his sword and ran for the edge of the arena. The Redguard chased after him with greater speed, kicking his legs out from under him before he got to the edge. He scrambled backwards away from her, but she planted a foot on his chest.

"I am sorry," she said solemnly, before she hacked through his neck.

"Ah, _well_," said Boethiah as the Redguard was returned to her cage. "We can't _all_ be champions, _hmm?_ You're _up_, elf."

Antario exited his cage to discover his opponent was the disappearing Dunmer who had dispatched the orc in such dramatic fashion. Antario sent a lightning bolt towards his opponent, but the Dunmer vanished before it struck. Antario had learnt not to do what the orc had done. Instead, he thrust his sword through his belt and cast two spells. One hardened his flesh, the other set up a wall of flames around him in a circle. Then he drew his sword and waited, holding a concentrated bolt in his other hand, ready to loose. He watched the flickering flames for any sign of movement, any break or shimmer that would show the movement of his enemy. Without a sound, the Dunmer appeared in mid-air, leaping over the flames. Antario slashed with his sword and loosed the lightning bolt, rolling to his left and through the fire, unharmed by his own spell.

He stood up and dispelled the wall of flames, seeing the Dunmer lying in the centre, scorched and bleeding from a cut across his chest. The dark elf spat blood, and rose again. Antario prepared another spell, a long shaft of ice, but the Dunmer spasmed and he waited, expecting his foe to collapse. Instead, he transformed. His arms elongated, long claws appearing at the ends. Dark bat-like wings sprouted from his back, and his face turned into a long-toothed monstrosity that Antario recognised: vampire lord. The hideous creature hovered just above the ground for a moment, then raced at him.

Antario was internally thankful, vampires were a lot easier to deal with than invisible assassins. He prepared a huge fireball, sending it rolling towards the vampire, consuming it in flames. He sent another, and another. The vampire screamed, its feet returning to the ground, its form shifting and twisting. It folded upon itself and the Dunmer reappeared, who screamed for one last time, then died. Antario put out the fires and severed his enemy's head, just to be sure.

Behind the rushing sounds of battle that filled his ears, his own blood pumping purposely through his body, he could faintly hear Boethiah clapping. He had no time to take a breath before he was thrust back through the air to his cage.

"_Well_ done!" exclaimed Boethiah to him. "Take a rest, you've _earnt_ it." Antario slumped to the ground in his cage, wiping the sweat from his brow.

The next fight played out much as Antario had anticipated. The Breton against the Ka Po'Tun. The little man did manage to get off a single bolt, but the Ka Po'Tun caught it in the air and crossed the distance to his foe before he had even managed to get another bolt from his quiver. The Breton's head was rolling on the stones a fraction later, coming to rest alongside the Dunmer's charred body. The white stones were fast becoming more red than white.

The Tsaesci fought the Argonian next. Antario would have bet on the snake-folk if he had been a gambling mer, but the Argonian delivered the greatest surprise of the tournament so far. The Tsaesci scythed forward with great speed as it had with the Kamal, clearly intending to end the current fight as quickly as that one. The Argonian merely stood his ground, as he had before. The twin swords of the Tsaesci slithered closer. When the contact came, the Argonian moved with surprising speed, pivoting to his right and guiding his hammer into the Tsaesci's head. Changing angles at the last second, one of the snake's swords still ended up embedded in the lizard's side. There was a tussle of green and black scales as the two fought in close quarters, the Tsaesci twisting the sword already within the Argonian's flesh, trying to bring the other blade to bear. The Argonian was having none of it. He pinned the Tsaesci's right arm with a boot, stopping the creature from using that sword, delivering another shattering blow to his opponent's head. His teeth gritted from the pain of the sword twisting inside him, but he carried on, smashing the Tsaesci's right arm, then its left, then its snout.

The lower snake body of the twisted frantically, but could not escape the Argonian's pinning. The hammer descended a final time, crushing the Akaviri creature's skull. A hand pressed over his flowing wide wound, the Argonian was carried through the air back to his cage.

"_Well_," said Boethiah, his voice low like he was passing on some secret code. "Wasn't _that_ a surprise!" In his cage, the Argonian grimaced and tore up his tunic to bandage his wound. "I _believe_ that brings us _ONTO ROUND 3!_" announced the Daedra, his voice suddenly echoing across the arena from every direction. He was clearly enjoying himself again, his past rage forgotten. However, Antario was taking nothing on surface value.

Once again, the defeated bodies and empty cages crumbled to dust. Four fighters remained. The Redguard, through to round three on only one easy fight. She stood at attention, nervously testing the sharpness of her sword, frequently glancing up at the others. The Argonian, slumped against the bars of his cage. He was trying to stop his wound from seeping through a makeshift bandage of his torn tunic, his scaled and scarred torso now bare. The Ka Po'Tun, pacing impatiently in the small space his cage allowed, his sword restrained in its scabbard on his back. And Antario, sword in his belt, his arms folded, trying very hard not to believe anything that Boethiah said.

Two of the cages opened, and Antario breathed a sigh of relief that neither of them were his. The Redguard and the Ka Po'Tun stepped into the arena. Antario eyed the Argonian, who would now most certainly be his own opponent. Still sitting at the back of his cage, the scaled figure was breathing raggedly and wincing with every slight movement. Antario did not expect much resistance, but vowed to be prepared nonetheless.

In the arena, the Ka Po'Tun moved once again with dazzling speed. The cat-who-would-be-dragon drew his sword and attacked with a sideways slice from the right. The Redguard did something that Antario would not have thought possible before: she met the Ka Po'Tun's sword with her own and turned it away. The face of the Akaviri warrior was confused, and the Redguard saw it.

"Fighting that trigger-happy thug and shining ponce ain't prepared you for me, that's for sure," she said, grimacing. She smashed into his face with her shield and delivered a quick stab in his left upper arm. He recoiled, jumping away, a distance that could not be covered by any upright creature on Tamriel. The next attack came from the Redguard, advancing with seemingly none of the fear that Antario was sure he would have felt in her place.

She feinted high, then came in low, delivering a cut to the Ka Po'Tun's leg. He hissed and brought his sword down. She raised her shield, but the blow carried enough force to crash into the shield and turned it into a useless dented circle. She grunted and dropped the shield. The Ka Po'Tun's next cut took off her left arm at the elbow. She staggered back, staring at the stump in disbelief.

The Ka Po'Tun said something in his own language, then stepped forward and drove his sword two-handed through the Redguard's chest. She gasped, gurgled blood, her body starting to ease forward. Her teeth ground together and her eyes flashed. She brought her scimitar up and hewed into the Ka Po'Tun's neck. He roared, twisting his own sword, causing her to scream. Blood spurting from her chest and bubbling from her mouth, the Redguard hacked again. Her sword went deep enough that time that the Ka Po'Tun collapsed, losing his grip on his sword and crumpling into the pooling blood. He died, his eyes wide with disbelief.

The Redguard let out a choked laugh that turned into a bloodied cough. She fell to her knees trying to pull the Akaviri sword from her chest. She grabbed it with both hands, looked up at the bright blue sky, wrenched it free, and died.

"_Fucking hell_," whispered the Argonian.

Boethiah whistled appreciatively. "I _believe_," he said, a smile spreading across his face, "that _means, _with only _two_ of you left, we _must_ proceed to the _final fight_." He did not yell an announcement that time, just clapped his hands. In that moment, the bodies of the Redguard and the Ka Po'Tun, along with their empty cages, turned to dust. The blood on the stones was wiped clean. The cages of Antario and the Argonian opened.

Antario stepped slowly into the arena, drawing his sword and preparing a lightning spell as reflex. He was not looking forward to cutting down a wounded opponent. The Argonian took much longer to exit his cage, slowly easing himself up with one hand on the bars for support, the other cradling his wound. His hand came away bloody and he winced, but picked up his hammer and advanced nonetheless. Antario respected him for that. He realised there were several of the combatants he would have liked to speak to, perhaps share some mead with. No such luck in this life, he though, no such small niceties in this realm, not under the watchful eye of Boethiah.

The Daedra in question floated in circles above the arena, waiting and watching.

The Argonian met Antario's eyes and, to the latter's surprise, smiled. A glowing light escaped from the black scales of his free hand, and his wound was healed. Antario kicked himself, he had been played for a fool. He should have realised, he told himself. Holding back a curse, he launched his prepared lightning bolt.

The Argonian summoned a ward, the bolt dispersing harmlessly. Antario hardened his flesh to iron, then tried a different tactic, one the Thalmor were fond of in battle. He summoned an atronach, of the storm variety. Its rocky body swirled, connected by small bolts flashing back and forth. The creature began to loose lightning bolts at the Argonian at a furious pace, who blocked each one with his ward, although Antario could see it faltering.

Antario moved around to the side, seeking to get a spell around the Argonian's ward. But his foe saw him and moved so as to prevent it. Antario summoned an additional atronach, a flame one this time, that soon began to launch to launch large fireballs at the Argonian, each exploding on impact with a blast that obscured Antario's view of his enemy.

Out of one of these blasts emerged the Argonian, roaring in fury, his ward down, his scales burning, his clothes on fire, coming at Antario with his hammer, attempting to shrug off the multiple spells. Antario reacted quickly, casting a stream of ice, slowing his foe's pace drastically. Antario was able to slip out of the way of the Argonian's sluggish strikes, stepping behind him and driving his sword through his back. The Argonian roared again and collapsed. Antario stood silently, breathing deeply, trying to get his heart-rate under control.

"_Well, well,_ _well_," said Boethiah, landing next to Antario. The Altmer dismissed his two atronachs and sheathed his sword.

"Now will you close the gate?" asked Antario.

Boethiah pouted. "I was _going _to ask you to be my _new champion_," he said.

"I do not want to be your champion," replied Antario. "Will you close the gate or not?"

"I _cannot_," replied the Daedra, annoyed. "I was _not_ the one contacted to _open_ it."

"Who was?" asked Antario.

Boethiah shrugged. "Dagon. Vile. Molag Bal. It's their _usual _pattern. I'm _not_ one for all-out _invasion_." He folded his arms and glared at Antario.

Antario thought it over. In that case, he would be of more use back in Helgen, he reasoned, holding the line, especially if the others were still in Oblivion. If indeed there was still a line to hold. It seemed an age since he'd stepped through the gate. "Can you send me back the way I came in?" he inquired.

"If that's what you _want_," said Boethiah. "You _did_ win, after all." He looked around the arena, went to one knee and ran a handful of dead contenders' ashes through his fingers. "Maybe I can _reform_ some of these," he said. "Seems such a _waste_ of good Chosen otherwise."

"Can you send me back now?" asked Antario, becoming impatient.

"Don't you want _your prize?_" asked Boethiah. He drew a sword out of thin air, curved like the Akaviri blade Antario already wielded, but with golden blade. "It is _traditionally_ awarded to the _winner_," the Prince added.

Antario was loath to accept any gifts from a Daedra, but found his principles were not as strong as Gondain's had become. He could feel the raw power radiating off the blade. He held out his hand, and Boethiah summoned a black scabbard for it, handing it over.

"It is called _Goldbrand_," said the Daedra. "Wield it _well_, Antario."

Antario was examining the blade, turning it over in both hands, when he felt himself start to feel faint. He looked down at himself, saw that he was becoming translucent. He looked up at Boethiah, who grinned and waved. Antario felt a hooking and rushing sensation, like he was being hauled up a waterfall. The arena and its white stone vanished, and he was thrust back through the gate into Helgen, sprawling in the dirt.

Dar'epha helped him to his feet. "Nice sword," she said.


	40. The Rainbow Runner

Falin crossed through the gate and was, for an instant, blinded. She scrunched her eyes closed against the brightness and when she opened them, still blinking furiously, saw she was in a white square room, almost as wide as the hall of Dragonsreach. The room was empty, and every surface seemed to be made of the same shining material. The brightness began to give her a headache. She paced around the edges of the room, feeling for openings of any sort, but found nothing. There was no sign of her husband or any of her friends either.

She had pulled back her hood and was running her fingers through her lengthening hair when a previously unseen panel on the wall in front of her dissolved. A figure in golden armour entered through the opening, an axe on its hip, the eyeslits of its armour showing only a black void. It gestured mechanically to the opening it had stepped through and spoke in a clear voice, seemingly taking effort to pronounce every word as perfectly as possible. However, despite its efforts, there was still something off about its Cyrodilic.

"Lady Meridia does wish to speak with you," it said.

That was when Falin knew where she'd ended up. The Coloured Rooms, realm of Meridia, Lady of Infinite Energies. One of the most obscure realms of Oblivion. She ransacked her memory for everything she knew about Meridia. She hated undead, and would reward anyone who removed them from the world. She was not considered wholly evil, at least not as wilfully destructive as, say, Mehrunes Dagon. One of the better realms Falin could have ended up in, then. Still, she wondered where Kureeth had gone. She'd felt his hand be wrenched from hers almost as soon as they'd gone through the gate.

The armoured being gestured towards the opening again. Falin admitted to herself that she had no other option but to do as it instructed. In Oblivion, the Princes ruled supreme, she was entirely at Meridia's mercy. She adjusted the Shield of Ysgramor on her arm and stepped up to the opening. It had condensed into thick fog, but when she stepped through it dissipated, and she found herself in another room of the same size, this time a soft blue colour. In the centre of the blue room was a single armchair. In in sat Meridia, dressed in a simple blue robe that left her pale arms bare. Her hair was long and black, her face pleasantly welcoming.

"Welcome, Falin," said she. "Have a seat." Her voice was smooth and layered with the hopes of future kindnesses. Another armchair appeared, facing the first. Falin looked behind her, but the opening she'd come through had vanished, the blue wall displaying no cracks or gaps. The golden armoured figure was gone too.

"The Auroran made himself clear?" Meridia asked. "Their Cyrodilic is not up to scratch, I'm afraid. Something I should really fix."

Falin unbuckled her shield and eased herself down into the armchair, leaving her defensive weapon propped up against the side, resting her hand along its large rim. She immediately felt relief; the fight through Helgen's Keep had taken a lot out of her. She closed her eyes briefly and thought of sleep.

"Do you know where my friends are?" asked Falin. "Where Kureeth is?"

"Unfortunately, they are beyond my powers," replied Meridia. "If I could bring them here, believe me, I would most certainly do so."

"Why am I here and not them?" demanded Falin, leaning forward in her chair, her hands moving to her knees.

"Because I claimed you first, before any of my rivals did so," Meridia explained. A small smile edged onto her face. "It is rare that so many make the leap through a gate. Many of my fellow princes, myself included, rightly assumed that Dagon would be so focused on acquiring the Dragonborn that the rest of you would be up for grabs. If you'll pardon the crude terminology."

"Where the others end up then?" asked Falin, trying to wrap her head around the logic of Oblivion and failing.

"Like I said, your friend Gondain was claimed by Dagon," said Meridia, frowning the slightest amount. "I believe Hermaeus Mora reached out for the Arch-Mage. As for the others, including your husband, I cannot say. I was rather focused on attaining you; I admit I was not paying as much attention as I should have been. Rather embarrassing, yes." Meridia looked a little sheepish, her cheeks reddened slightly. Falin was not convinced.

"You haven't really answered my question," demanded Falin. "Why am I here? Why did you pick me, as you claim?"

Meridia clasped her hands lightly in her lap. Her gaze hardened on Falin. "You are not aware of this," spoke the Daedra, "But shortly the Vigilants of Stendarr will be the victims of a most grievous attack. Their Hall in the Pale will be destroyed. Only those out on patrol will survive, and even those will not last long."

Falin couldn't believe it. The Hall of the Vigilant destroyed, just like that? No, it had to be a trick. Besides, they'd been past it not more than a day ago, it had looked perfectly normal from the distance they'd been at. No, there was no way. At least, extremely unlikely. The Vigilants certainly had themselves a lot of enemies. But how many were organised enough to mount an attack like that and win?

"How?" asked Falin. "Who will do it?"

"Vampires," said Meridia, her lip curling in disgust. "A most repulsive clan known as the Volkihar. Their lord, a despicable cretin known as Harkon, is organising the vampires under his rule. To what ends, I know not. They clearly cannot deal with the interference of the Vigilants."

Much raced through Falin's mind. Vampires! The Vigilants may have been borderline fanatic, but they stood between Skyrim and the darkness, able to deal with problems of a monstrous nature beyond the capability of the Jarls. If the vampires were becoming a serious threat, it made sense that they would take the Vigilants out of the game as soon as possible.

"When will this happen? Can it be stopped?" asked Falin.

"Hours or months, I do not know," replied the Lady, adjusting her robe. She paused, seemingly weighing up Falin with her gaze. "Now, the Vigilants despise me as they despise all my brethren, but the feeling is not mutual. They make themselves very useful indeed, disrupting the plans of the other Princes, ridding Skyrim of werewolves, necromancers and other such unearthly monsters. They have my full blessing in almost all matters."

"When the Vigilants are destroyed – and they will be – I want to reform them in my name," announced Meridia. "And I want you to lead them."

Falin hadn't seen that coming. She didn't know what she'd expected, what the bargain would be, but it hadn't been that. To lead the reformed Vigilants... in a form that was essentially a daedric cult. Falin fumbled for objections.

"I'm not really cut out for that sort of job," she stammered, not meeting Meridia's eyes. A nice Daedra, but still a Daedra. "You need someone like Gondain."

"You are loyal," said Meridia. "You have a moral code. You are not power-hungry. You can speak with passion." She paused, staring at the ceiling for a moment. "Besides, the Dragonborn spurned my offer of Champion. He did carry Dawnbreaker for a long time, annihilating undead in my name, but his fire is out. He no longer has the passion. It is time for a new champion to arise in my name. You."

"He still has your sword with him," objected Falin. "Probably using it right now," she assured the Daedra.

"Oh, I know where it is," Meridia said. "I wonder if Dagon will let me have it back." She stopped, her expression becoming distant. Falin started to speak, but Meridia held up a finger and she fell silent, waiting. Finally, a gap in the air opened. The Lady of Infinite Energies stretched her arm through it, withdrawing it with Dawnbreaker in her hand a second later.

"How nice of Dagon," Meridia said. "I must remember to send him a gift." The sword still glowed as Falin had seen it do before, a barely constrained magical force throbbing beneath the surface of the blade. "You would wield this, of course," she added, laying the sword across her knees.

"Can you… can you close the gate?" asked Falin, her hands tightening into fists on the armrests of her chair. She had no intention of accepting Meridia's offer, no intention of serving any Daedra, and wanted to postpone that announcement as long as possible.

Meridia sighed again. "No, that is Dagon's doing, not mine," she said. "I _can_ tell you, however, that all of your friends who remain within the realms of Oblivion are still alive, at least for the moment. I can't say I hold out much hope for the Dragonborn."

Falin was silent for a long time. Minutes ticked by, Meridia waiting patiently for the Bosmer to make a decision.

"I'm sorry, but I can't accept your offer," Falin said eventually, in a small voice. She was actually sorry, at least a little. Meridia had offered information that she didn't have to have offered, provided comforts that many of the other Princes would have disregarded.

To Falin's surprise, Meridia seemed unaffected. The Daedra shrugged in a swaying sort of way, her expression not changing. "I didn't think you would," the Lady said. "But you were the best candidate to hand." She gestured over Falin's shoulder. "You can leave the way you came in."

Frowning, considering it unlikely the Daedra would let her go just like that, Falin rose from her seat. She strapped her shield back onto her left arm. She turned where Meridia had pointed and a panel in the wall dissolved into the fog again. It looked like roughly the same one she'd come in through. She stepped through it, expecting to be in the white room she'd arrived in. However, the room was red, a dark red of clotting blood.

The opening closed behind her, and she was alone. She waited, but nothing happened. Was there something else she was supposed to do? She pondered all that Meridia had said, the destruction of the Vigilants, the rise of the vampires. She'd tell the others about it, maybe the Dragonborn would wipe them out. Falin certainly didn't feel confident enough in her own abilities to go up against a full clan of blood-sucking immortals.

Meridia's voice echoed through the room, coming from everywhere at once. At the same time, an opening appeared on the far side of the red room. Falin rushed towards it, the Lady's voice ringing in her ears.

"_When the night falls_," spoke the Daedra. With each room, there was a new colour and a new opening. With each room, Falin rushed straight for the opening, her panic rising every time. With each room, Meridia added another phrase to her echoing speech, the comforting motherly tones replaced with booming announcements.

"_And does not end_." A green room, light and flickering, like leaves in front of sunlight. "_When the lost are reborn_." An orange room, vividly bright. "_And the prophecies are fulfilled_." A grey room, swirling like stormclouds. "_When the vampires run unchecked_." A yellow room, reeking with cloying heat. "_With their feast never-ending_." A black room, lit by small bright pinpoints of stars.

"_Then_," said Meridia, "_then you will wish you had accepted my offer_."

Falin felt her feet become unsteady on the floor, and looked down to see the entire black surface upon which she stood had turned into the fog-like substance that formed openings in the Coloured Rooms. Falin frowned. But that would mean—

* * *

She fell. Through the fog, for a split second longer than she thought necessary. Perhaps some revenge of Meridia's? She frantically tried to craft a spell, but was too slow. She passed through the gate and into Helgen feet first, still falling too fast. The gravity of Nirn kicked in and she fell to the dirt with an unpleasant crunch. Searing pain flew up her left leg. In a matter of seconds, Dar'epha was at her side, pulling her up.

"You alright?" asked the Khajiit.

"I think my leg's broken," replied Falin, beginning to craft a healing spell. "I didn't expect Meridia to be so _petty_."


	41. Night of the Hunter

Kureeth crossed through the gate and fell from several metres up into a hedge. Scrambling out, he cursed internally as he realised he'd been separated from Falin, from his other companions. He shook himself, pieces of foliage going flying. He'd felt his wife's hand be wrenched from his almost as soon as they'd stepped through the gate. This wasn't his fight, he told himself. He cursed again, out loud this time. But he'd promised to see it through to the end, and he would. To close the gate, that was the aim, he remembered, keeping it fixed in his mind. First, he had to determine where he was.

He scanned the area, thanking his dragonscale armour for cushioning his impact. Tall hedges rose on both sides, and when he clamboured to the top of the one he'd landed in, there was nothing but more twisting hedge walls and monolithic trees as far as the eye could see. His tail swished back and forth nervously as he made the mental connections. He was fairly sure that he stood in the Hunting Grounds, the maze-like realm of Hircine, Lord of the Hunt, Father of the Manbeasts. The one realm Kureeth had been sure he didn't want to end up in. But, of course, it was the realm he had been drawn to by some unknown force. Claimed by Hircine, he knew. For there was a reason Kureeth had left Argonia, a reason that, in Skyrim, was known only to himself and his wife.

* * *

Kureeth lived with the rare form of an ancient curse. He'd done his research; short of the fabled weresharks, of which there was no direct evidence, his was the rarest. For one day in Argonia, foolishly fording a river to avoid being recruited for the invasion of Morrowind, Kureeth had been bitten by a vicious crocodile. He'd fought off the beast with his bare hands, breaking enough of its bones that it had retreated back into the murky depths. But the wound has festered, leaking pus and letting out a foul stench. And the pain, the pain had been unbelievable. At the time, he had thought it was the worst thing he had ever experienced. Oh, how wrong he had been.

Stumbling into a village days later, the villagers had recognised the bite for what it was and driven him away. That night found him on a different river bank, staring up at the two moons of Tamriel. A strange sensation had come over him and, seeking to escape the pain of the womb, he'd explored it, followed where it lead. Then the real pain had begun. His bones had grown and he had screamed out into the jungle. His muscles had expanded, his clothes shredding. His snout had lengthened, oddly, not to the full length of a crocodile, more like a lizard, or a dragon. His tail had become elongated, his skin hardened with thick scales and jutting spines. Feeling the urge to swim, he had dived into the river and swum with furious speed, overcome with the lust for violence and blood. He feasted on the beasts responsible for his curse that night; those reptiles responsible for turning him into what he was: a werecroc.

* * *

Traversing the maze of Hircine brought all this back to front of Kureeth's mind, though it was never far away. The hedge walls were high, twisting in unpredictable ways. There was no logic to the maze, and it seemed to frequently turn back upon itself in defiance of the impossible. Kureeth knew he was lost, but did not care. The inevitable would come, he may as well make it quick. He looked up at the sky, saw the last edge of the sun dropping over the horizon, behind the tall trees. He had minutes at the most. Then the horn would sound, and the true hunt would begin.

He rounded a corner and came face-to-face with a brown werewolf, its jaws dripping with drool and blood, its long claws reaching out for him. Kureeth moved instantly. As the beast swiped at him, he ducked and dove between its legs. Coming to his feet, he quickly delivered a crunching kick to its left ankle, then brought his grasping hand in and ripped out its right hamstring. Kureeth reminded himself to thank Gondain again for the dragonscale armour next time he saw him, as the beast howled in pain and dropped to all fours, blood matting the fur on its legs. He drove his elbow into its spine and pulled its arm back and around. Panting and struggling to find purchase, he wrenched the arm from its socket. Another howl escaped the werewolf's mouth.

At that moment, two more werebeasts rounded the corner the way Kureeth had come. One werewolf, one werebear. Kureeth cursed and ran, leaving his crippled foe flailing in the dirt. He knew what Hircine wanted him to do, and he knew that he would be unable to avoid it. There was no way he could survive without the transformation. The last rays of sunlight vanished over the horizon. A huge horn echoed across the maze, the loudest sound Kureeth had ever heard. It went on and on, but he kept running, trying to drown it out, focusing on each next step. Hircine had joined the Hunt.

A huge boar crashed through the hedge in front of Kureeth. It lowered its snout and charged at him, the pointed tusks looking to gouge at his flesh. Kureeth had other ideas. He doubted the tusks would penetrate his armour, but he took no chances. He waited until the last second, the tusks inches away, before he leapt, rolling over the ridged back of the animal, escaping through the hole it had made in the hedge. By the time the boar finished its charge and turned around, the Argonian was long gone. Finally, the horn ceased.

Kureeth hurtled through the maze, skidding around corners, hurdling the hedges when he could get enough of a run-up. He was forced to change direction frequently, as beasts emerged from the maze, raging animals of many varieties. Huge charging boars that attempted to gore him as the first one had. He used the same tactic on all of them. Hulking bears that lunged with ferocious speed, swiping with huge paws. Kureeth's armour became battered and scarred from the attacks, but none penetrated it. His nerves frayed, every corner had the prospect of hiding another enemy. He could hear more horns too, as Hircine's hunting party stormed through the maze, could hear the roars as the Prince found prey. There were trolls too, their long arms forcing Kureeth to stay well out of range. But when there was a gap, he snuck in, delivering savage blows to their skulls. Enough to knock them down, but no more. He had to keep moving. To stop was to die.

The were-creatures were the worst. Werewolves, werebears, wereboars. They ran faster than the others, and their claws were viciously sharp. They could leap over the hedges easily, so Kureeth could not escape them that way. More than once he found himself racing and turning with a beast right behind, only to discover a dead-end. Then, he would fight. It always descended into messy wrestling, Kureeth throwing his whole body into combat, crippling the foe as soon as possible and moving on, diving over hedges or doubling back to discover new routes and paths had opened up through some demonic trickery in his absence.

His fists bloody after gouging out a werebear's eyes, Kureeth hurdled another hedge and found himself in a circular enclosure. At the same moment, Hircine and his troupe entered through an opening. The Prince himself was shirtless, with a head shaped like a deer's skull, antlers still attached and stretching outwards, his face fixed in an eternal grin. He carried a long spear and rode upon a giant black bear that also had antlers. His retinue consisted of a mix of werecreatures, all larger and more ferocious looking than Kureeth had seen anywhere else in the maze.

Despite the lack of lips, the Daedra raised a horn to his mouth and blew. The Prince's retinue charged. Kureeth cursed; he knew there was only one option. He delved inside his mind and knocked aside all the mental blocks he'd spent years setting up, hating Hircine more with every step closer he got. The werebeasts were almost upon him when the transformation started. Kureeth screamed, his back arching. His armour cracked and shattered as he grew too big to fit inside it. He felt his bones swelling inside him, felt his organs shift and grow, felt his muscles bulge with raw power. His scream became a roar, and his armour lay in pieces upon the ground. The werecroc stepped forward to meet his foes.

His scales had hardened, many of them were ridged. His claws were vicious and long. Usually Kureeth held his strength back, lived under a mantra of control, calculated and contained. Only shreds of that remained as he met his enemies. Brutal rage was his mantra now. His foes were all furred, and he found himself looking at them with disdain. Soft-bodied weaklings, he thought, tearing into the first, a brown wereboar, with his claws, cutting deep wounds in its stomach. Another slash across the throat and it was down, blood spurting.

The second, a grey werewolf, leapt at him, and he met it in the air, slamming it into the ground and crushing its skull with two powerful punches. He sensed one behind and lashed with his tail, sending the black werewolf across the space and through the hedge. He opened two more throats in a matter of seconds. The next was a black werebear, rearing up as he approached, but its swiping pass glanced off his scales and his teeth crunched into its neck, making it send out a roar that descended into a gurgle as it died.

The last was another wereboar, with a ridged back and long curving tusks. He stepped easily out of the way of its charge, raking his claws down its side as it passed. It screeched and came at him again. He met it head on that time, using his full bulk to halt its charge. His scaled hands grasped the tusks and he grunted, pushing the wereboar onto its back and holding it down with a powerful foot. Keeping his hands on the tusks, he pulled on them, removing them from the skull. There were two fountains of blood, and the beast died.

He turned and saw Hircine cast his spear. His hand moved to catch it in the air, but it went right through, leaving a ragged hole. He charged at the Prince, swatting him like a fly from the back of the antlered bear he rode. The bear lunged, but he grabbed its jaws and snapped them open with unearthly cracks, smashing the skull to make sure.

Kureeth emerged from within the monster, shaking his head, regaining control. His size reduced as he contained his rage, leaving him a naked and bloody Argonian surrounded by broken bodies. Hircine rose from where he had fallen, the skull-face unreadable, looking at Kureeth.

"Close the gate," said Kureeth between haggard breaths, noticing he could see daylight through his left hand, grinding his teeth against the pain.

"I cannot," spoke Hircine, the words issuing forth despite no movement from the jaw of the skull.

"Then send me back!" yelled Kureeth, taking several staggering steps towards the Prince.

The empty eyes of the Lord of the Hunt stared at the Argonian who had taken apart his personal werebeasts with such ease. "I will have your soul in the end," said Hircine. "You cannot escape your fate."

"Only upon my death," said Kureeth, spitting blood. "We'll see what happens between now and then."

The eternal smile of the Prince seemed to widen. "I look forward to seeing you again," he said. Kureeth felt the world growing dim around him, saw everything go fuzzy, and collapsed, opening his eyes to see Masser and Secunda floating in the night sky above him. He was back.

He felt himself being hauled to his feet and saw it was Dar'epha and Antario, both politely averting their eyes from his nakedness.

"Falin's in the Keep," said Dar'epha. Kureeth felt a wave of relief pass over him. "I'm sure there's something in there you can wear."

Kureeth nodded and kept silent, letting them carry him towards his wife, once again focussed on erecting the walls in his mind to cage the beast within.


	42. Through Fog and Ash

Vash crossed through the gate and entered a realm that he had only dreamed of seeing. He stood in an endless library, with shelves stretching off into the dim distance. Each book had the same black cover, no titles, no indication of what knowledge lay inside. The floor was covered in loose pages, more floated in the air, drifting on some unfelt wind. More books rose in piles that defied gravity and logic, twisting and turning into columns, arches, bridges, towers. Moisture hung in the air with a sickly weight, and fog covered the entire realm as far as he could see, which was not far. It was dark, the sky a dim expanse that seem to slither uncomfortably as he looked at it. Vash knew he stood in Apocrypha, the realm of Hermaeus Mora.

Vash summoned a small ball of light that hovered over his left shoulder, letting him see his way, and more importantly, read. He snatched a page out of the air and scanned it eagerly.

"… _chosen to explore this relation of world to shadow, Azra was the first to realize that shadows were not a mere absence of light but a reflection of possible worlds created by forces in conflict. A light strikes a rock, and the shadow is a record of their clash, past, present and future. Other conflicting forces produced less obvious shadows, fire and water, wind and_ …"

The page faded into unreadable damp. Vash thought he recognised the name Azra, but couldn't place it. Something to do with the Star Teeth, perhaps? He remembered reading something about that conflict. Although it seemed an age since he'd been at the College. What a boon this eternal library could be to the College! The good they could do with such knowledge was impossible to measure. He let go of the page and it resumed its fluttering. He reached for a random book, plucking it off the shelf, running his fingers down the black cover. He opened to the first page, and began to read.

"_That others might know, and be warned and witful, those devices called 'augmented' are special, and deserving of special praise, for they bear multiple enchantments, the more econmically to aid the enchanter and warrior is his daily labors_."

Vash rolled his eyes disapprovingly at the spelling mistakes. The rest of the book, he saw, flicking rapidly from one page to the next, seemed to be a catalogue of these 'augmented' weapons and items. Where this catalogue actually was, Vash had no idea. He returned it to the shelf, intrigued at the idea of such a vast collection of artifacts. He put the book back, and took the next one.

"_The life cycle of the Grummite is rather unique. They appear to be a deviant version of frogs and may even be distantly related to Argonians, although I have found no direct evidence of that. Like the humble frog, the Grummite is born from eggs found in or near water. The eggs hatch into_—"

Vash put the book back, losing interest. He'd never heard of any creature called a 'Grummite', and had no interest in reading about its life cycle. He turned away and walked down the aisle he had found himself in, roaming aimlessly. Occasionally he found an intersection, corridors meeting in the labyrinth, and he would take one at random. Sometimes the halls would be straight, sometimes they would curve and the floor would rise and fall. On one occasion, he had to wait for a moving bridge that carried him across the greenish murky water that moved with the tentacles of unknown horrors. Vash paid it little mind. He merely re-lit his hovering light and continued on.

He came to a room that seemed like a dead end. A single eerie torch hung above a small table that sat in the circular room, the walls still full of shelves and books. More books were piled up on the table in a disorganised fashion, and Vash took one from the top and opened it.

"_Decumus Scotti was drowning, and he didn't think much of it. He couldn't move his arms or his legs to swim because of the paralysis spell the Argonian peasant had lobbed at him, but he wasn't quite sinking. The Onkobra River was a crashing force of white water and currents that could carry along large rocks with ease, so Scotti tumbled head over heels, spinning, bumping, bouncing along_."

This was a passage Vash recognised. It was part of Waughin Jarth's _Argonian Account_, a dubious tale of an Imperial's misadventures in Black Marsh. A noise from behind him caught Vash's attention and he turned with speed, leaving Decumus Scotti to his own devices. A monster floated before Vash, entirely composed of swaying tentacles. A pair of black eyes fixed upon him and a pair of tentacles reared up, preparing a spell. Vash reacted first. A fireball soon engulfed the creature, followed by another. The creature roared and flailed, but Vash sent forth a series of icy spikes that buried themselves in the core of the creature. He brought his hands together and cast one final fireball, larger than all the rest, consuming the creature in an inferno.

Breathing deeply, he scanned the area for other enemies but found none. He turned to the pile on the table again, quickly summoning a wolf-shaped familiar to watch his back while he read. The first book he picked up was thin, and seemed to be structured like an anecdote.

"_For over twenty years, I have been a healer at the Temple of Stendarr. As the reader is doubtless aware, we are the only temple in the Iliac Bay that offers wound healing and illness curing for both the faithful and the heathen alike, for Stendarr is the God of Mercy. I have faced people at their most miserable and their most terrified. I have seen brave knights weep and strong peasants scream. I like to think that I've watched the masks drop from faces, and seen people as they truly are._

"_A healer's job, after all, is more than simply binding wounds and stopping the flows of poison and disease. We are counselors and comforters for those who have given up all hope. Sometimes, it seems like our kind words and sympathy do more for our patients than our spells. I am reminded of a very sick young man who came to the temple, suffering from a variety of maladies. Once I had given him an examination, I told him the results, careful not to alarm him. I let him decide how he wanted to be told the news._

"'_I have some good news and some bad news, my child,' I said._

"'_I better hear the bad news first,' he said._

"'_Well,' I said, gripping his shoulder in case he should faint. 'The bad news is that, unless I am wrong, you will sicken even more over the next day or two. And unless Stendarr choses to be merciful to you, you will pass from this existance. I am sorry, my child.'_

"_As soft as the blow was, it stung nonetheless. The boy was, after all, very young. He thought he had his whole life ahead of him. Tears streaming down his face, he asked, 'And what is the good news?'_

"_I smiled: 'When you came in, did you notice our proselytizer? She was the enchanting, voluptuous blonde in the antechamber by the foyer?'_

"_Color returned to the young man's face. He had noticed her indeed. 'Yes?'_

"'_I'm sleeping with her,' I said._

"_If more of the healers of Tamriel would consider their patients' feelings, not just the quickest way to heal them up and get them out, we would have a far, far healthier society. I truly believe that_."

Vash chuckled. Dar'epha would've liked that one. He was suddenly overtaken with a feeling of intense nausea. He remembered why he was there: to close the gate. Wandering the halls of Apocrypha, it had completely vanished from his mind. He felt ashamed. How much time had he wasted? But what could he do from here? Full invasion of Tamriel wasn't Hermaeus Mora's usual method. But he might still have some answers. But how to attract his attention? The Daedric Prince was clearly aware that Vash was within his realm, but how to engage with him directly?

When Vash hit upon the answer, it made him slightly sad. But he steeled himself. How many souls had been lost to these halls of forbidden knowledge, how many would never see the light of Tamriel again? Vash loosed flames from both palms, and set about burning as many books as he could reach. He'd barely finished with the circular room when a roar came from above. His fires were quenched, and the tentacles descended, curling and slithering over the burnt books. A mass of the slimy things congregated above a shelf, dozens of eyes emerging from the mass to focus on Vash.

"Arch-Mage," breathed the Lord of Secrets. His voice was low and flat, almost a monotone. "You have become a great disappointment to me."

"Can you close the gate?" demanded Vash, refusing to look away from the hideous visage.

"I would not even if I could," said Hermaeus Mora. "And you do not belong here; you have made that abundantly clear. You belong with your own kind. The outcasts. The cursed. The spurned. Here, meet your true lord, for it is not I."

A multitude of tentacles descended towards Vash, and he saw only darkness.

* * *

The next thing Vash gro-Nul saw was swirls of thick ash, moving as though in a light breeze. He also realised that he was falling and choking at the same time. He coughed hoarsely and held his breath, casting a quick levitation spell to halt his descent. He righted himself, suspended in the seemingly unending choking void. Then he began to work on a new spell. He'd known about it in theory before, but had never attempted to use it, had never had the need to. To breathe in the ash, he modified a waterbreathing spell. The basic concepts of filtration were the same, he simply needed to adapt it. By the time he was done, his lungs were bursting for air. He cast it, and inhaled deeply.

The modified spell worked perfectly. He even realised it would drain his magicka at a far slower rate than a normal waterbreathing spell would. Balancing the two spells with his reserves, he slowly turned in a circle, examining the realm Hermaeus Mora had banished him to. An eternal black void stretched in every direction, ash swirling around of its own accord. Sometimes as a particular cloud gusted past him, Vash could hear whispered words on the wind.

"_No way I'm gonna split this between the two of us_."

"_Fuckin' shithead, shoulda seen it comin'._"

"_No, how could he? How could he!?_"

Vash knew where he was. The Ashpit, realm of Malacath, God of Curses, venerated by the Orcs all over Tamriel. Morian Zenas had described it exactly as Vash saw it then, to his apprentice Seif-ij Hidja, who had recorded his master's experiences in the book _The Doors of Oblivion_. Vash floated forward. Morian had never encountered Malacath, and his descriptions of the realm had been vague at best, but perhaps Vash would be luckier. He had the advantage of being one of the Daedra's people, after all.

He floated on. Occasionally, the ash would form into the semblance of some ferocious creature, some beast that would rear before Vash in the void and bear down upon him. A single firebolt was all it took to scatter them apart again.

It seemed an age before he sighted something other than ash clouds. A jutting spire of rock emerged from the ash, extending endlessly both up and down. As Vash floated closer, hoping for somewhere to land, he espied a cave opening. The closer he got to the spire, the larger he realised it was. It was monolithic, without a doubt the largest structure he had ever seen. He could not even comprehend its breadth, let alone its height. Floating towards the dark cleft in the rock, he landed just inside the entrance. The passage was dark and twisted, so Vash once more summoned a glowing ball of light, sending it just ahead of him this time to guide him along. As he rounded the first corner, he dispelled his breathing construct as the air cleared, the ash storms remaining outside. The passage steepened, steps appearing, chiselled out of the solid rock. They spiralled upwards and he followed. Exhausted, his magicka still not fully regenerated, Vash arrived at the top.

He was still inside the spire, as far as he could tell. The walls were still of that same black rock, although a ceiling was not visible, not matter how much he craned his neck looking. The ground had turned to a deep soil and before him stretched a harsh, yet beautiful garden. Huge pines stretched up into the cavern, shafts of rock jutting from the ground were ringed by ferns. There were no flowers. Green and brown were the dominant colours. Vash stepped forward warily, following a small winding path, marvelling at how different the environment was from the whirling ash clouds outside.

Eventually, he came to a campfire. A tent was pitched between two trees and a mountain of an orc sat on a stump, gently turning a heavily-loaded spit over the fire. He had a knotted white beard and shaggy white hair. Deep wrinkles rifted across his face and his eyes seemed sad, lost in some ancient sorrow. He was dressed simply in a brown tunic and pants, but a full set of orcish armour sat in a pile on his left, including a huge matching broadsword, within easy reach. This, Vash knew at once, was Malacath.

"Vash gro-Nul," uttered the Lord of the Spurned, his voice deep, his manner straight-forward. "Have a seat." Vash looked around, and saw there was another tree stump to the right of the Prince. He sat, unsure of what to expect. They sat in silence, Malacath turning his spit, Vash tapping his finger on his knee nervously.

"Mora kicked you out," said Malacath. It wasn't a question. "Happens a fair bit. Orsimer messing around in some Prince's realm, they kick 'em here." He turned the spit a final time, then took it off the fire, sliding the pieces of meat onto a large wooden platter that Vash wouldn't have been surprised if Malacath had carved himself, the old-fashioned way. The huge orc placed the plate between himself and Vash, drawing a knife from his belt and jabbing a piece, tearing large sections off with his teeth. Orc teeth were good for eating meat.

"Help yourself," Malacath said after a big swallow. Vash did so. For a time the only sounds were the chewing of teeth and the rending of meat. Malacath ate at least three times as much as Vash did, but made no comment on it. The Daedra wiped his mouth with a hand.

"Before you ask," he said, "I cannot close the gate in Helgen. That is Dagon's work, not mine." Vash nodded understandingly. It was about what he had expected. He only hoped that one of his companions had been more successful that he had been. "I would," continued Malacath, "like to ask a favour of you."

"Of course," said Vash, eager to please. He was also unsure how to address Malacath. By name seemed inappropriate. As a Prince? 'My lord'? One of his other titles? For now Vash would simply avoid the issue as best he could.

"The orcs in Skyrim are hurting," explained Malacath. "Their lot is not improving. I want you to help them. Your position of authority could be useful. They will survive, of course. They are orcs. But you need to weed out the weak, let the strong rule. They need to adapt to Skyrim. You can help them do that."

"Will they accept my authority?" asked Vash, mentally cataloguing the orc strongholds in Skyrim. Dushnikh Yal, in the south of the Reach. Narzulbur, east of Windhelm. Largashbur, at the south end of the Rift. And Mor Khazgur, in the far north-west of Skyrim.

Malacath frowned. "They will," he pronounced with finality. "I will tell them you are coming. You'll do it?"

"Of course," repeated Vash. If he was being honest with himself, he had neglected his fellow orcs, what with all his College work and adventuring with the Dragonborn. It would do him good to see his own people again.

"I'm surprised you would pick me for something like that," asked Vash in a moment of boldness. "I thought you prided physical strength over all. It's why I left Orsinium in the first place."

Malacath stood, stretching his arms out in front of him. "Strength of magic is still strength," he said. "As is strength of the mind. Would you have survived in the pit without it? With just the strength of the body? No. Against some foes, strength of the body is not enough." Vash realised the truth of that, standing as well. It seemed impolite to sit while the Lord of the orcs stood.

"Do you wish to return to your own world?" asked Malacath.

Vash pondered his options. "Can you send me to one of my friends? Or tell me where they are?" he asked.

Malacath shook his head, his eyes darkening. "I cannot," he said, his voice treading around the edges of a lost hope. "Short of banishing my people here, the Daedra refuse to acknowledge my existence."

Vash nodded, reaching under his hood to scratch his scalp. It seemed appropriate. Malacath was the master of the spurned, after all. "Send me back to Helgen, then," said Vash.

Malacath nodded and extended his hand. The two shook. "Fair you well, Arch-Mage," said Malacath. Vash felt himself become lighter. Whether it was the shock of meeting two Daedra in such a short time starting to sink in or the almost bone-crushing strength of Malacath's grip, he never had time to determine. The world went black, then light again, and he found himself standing on the Helgen side of the gate. He stepped quickly away from it, surveying the arrayed and bedraggled group before him, who lowered their weapons upon recognising him.

There seemed to be far fewer defenders than when he had left. Dar'epha and Antario approached him. "Any luck?" the Khajiit asked him.

"No," he replied, looking them over. Dar'epha seemed as she always was, but Antario's robes were singed, torn and bloody, as if he'd been through some horrendous battle. "Any of the others back?" he enquired.

Antario gestured towards the Keep. "Falin came through a short while ago, but her leg broke on her return impact. Kureeth is with her, he is injured also, in the hand. Kara and Gondain, we have not seen."

Vash turned towards the Keep. "I'll see what I can do for Falin and Kureeth, then," he said. Dar'epha grabbed his shoulder before he could take another step, however, bringing her face close to his.

"What did you see?" she whispered.

Vash grimaced. "I think it is a tale best for when this is all over," he replied.

She pressed her eyes closed, radiating tiredness. "It's not over yet, is it?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.

Vash looked around at the other defenders. Many faces were missing. He looked back at the eye of the gate, stilling pulsing with demonic energies. "No," he said. "Not yet."


	43. Choice and Consequence

_~ A/N: In regards to Kai's rather nice review, no, I am not reading all the books. My lore knowledge comes from hours trawling both the Unofficial Elder Scroll Pages and the Imperial Library, both excellent resources for all things Elder Scrolls. I'll put links to them on my profile, as they seem to vanish from here. Thanks for reading, everybody. ~_

* * *

Kara crossed through the gate and at once felt underdressed. She found herself standing in front of a highly ornamental metal gate, with intricate patterns woven into it. It was fixed into a high brick wall that was overgrown with creeping plants, many of which flowered in shades of white, yellow and blue. Her dirty orcish armour, with its bloodstains and savage points, had never been more out of place. She sheathed her sword, against her better judgement, and was on the verge of pushing through the gate when it opened for her.

A white-faced man with a small garden of horns growing on his head instead of hair appeared. He wore fine but simple clothes, all black with white trimmings. His expression never moved.

"Ah, Mistress Stormblade, is it?" he said in an exaggeration of a Cyrodilic accent. "Come in, come in. Lord Vile has been expecting you." He looked her up and down and made a tsking noise. "I would ask you to change, but Lord Vile insisted you be brought to him as soon as he arrives. Come, follow me."

He stepped aside, allowing Kara to enter. What was revealed was an extraordinary garden, with trees trimmed into exact shapes of animals of all kinds. Kara spotted a frostbite spider, each leg perfectly clipped out of foliage. A troll, a sabrecat, even a huge dragon were also among the displays. Kara followed the white-faced man along the small winding paths, bordered with beautiful flower displays, tables laden with delicate refreshments expertly placed at spaced distances. The man led her around groups of yellow-faced creatures; all dressed in exquisite tunics and robes of the finest quality, no two the same. They all seemed to be engaged in a veneer of light conversation, laughter occasionally rippling across the garden. Kara realised she'd arrived at a garden party.

"When you said Lord Vile," she said, struggling to catch up with the white-faced man, who she assumed was some sort of manservant. "Did you mean Clavicus Vile? The Daedric Prince?"

The manservant threw her a look of disdain over his shoulder as they continued walking. "Of course," he said, his voice laced with barely contained condescension. As they wound past the other guests with their yellow faces and elaborate horns, many of them looked at Kara with disgust. She felt herself shrink inside, and wished for invisibility.

As they rounded a tree-sculpture of a highly-toothed reptile Kara did not recognise, a low building came into view, composed entirely out of glass. It was a single storey, but was highly elaborate, with swirling coloured patterns and images in the glass walls, depicting things that Kara could not understand. The manservant opened a glass door in the glass building and ushered her inside, following after her and closing the door.

Sitting on a small chair was a small man with two small horns growing from his brow. He was slightly portly, and had a permanent smile. The shaggiest dog Kara had ever seen napped next to him.

"Ah, Kara!" said Clavicus Vile, his face lighting up. "Welcome to my humble abode." Looking around, Kara saw that it was anything but. Thick drapes covered the glass walls, embroidered with endless patterns that could not be followed with the naked eye. The carpet too was of a similar kind. The glass ceiling however, was left bare, letting an enormous amount of light in, and allowing a clear view of an empty blue sky, as the glass on the ceiling was neither coloured nor patterned.

"Quite nice, isn't it?" said Vile, clasping his hands together. "Of course, it used to be much bigger. That's where you come in."

Kara frowned. "What do you mean?" she asked. "I only came through to close the gate. In Helgen."

"Ah, yes," said Vile, scratching his dog behind the ears. "The gate. Dagon's work, I'm afraid. Yes, nothing I can do. Clumsy job on the Thalmor's part, hmm? Fits Dagon's usual tone perfectly. Wonderful to see, though. No, our old friend the Dragonborn will have to sort that one out."

"You know the Dragonborn?" asked Kara. Gondain had said he'd dealt with most of the Princes, but Vile? He was notorious for making deals that would come back and bite you.

"Oh, yes, we got along quite well, didn't we, Barbas?" said Vile, addressing the dog.

"Yes," said the dog, making Kara flinch. Its voice was loud and grating, its tone far too eager. "He returned me to my master."

"He spurned my gifts, though," said Vile, still smiling. "He spurned all of our gifts. Some of us were quite put out."

"Us?" inquired Kara, although she wasn't sure she wanted to know.

"The Princes," explained Vile. "Dagon was furious, enough to get first rights." At that point Vile giggled a little, as if all of it was just a big joke. "Vaermina was terribly angry. Bal has talked of little else for months. No, the Dragonborn is with Dagon now, and I can't imagine he's having a particularly good time of it."

"What about you?" asked Kara. It was pretty obvious that the Prince before her was not filled with rage, or else he was very good at hiding it.

"Hmm," said Vile. "Jagon, what did the Dragonborn do with my Masque?" He looked up at the white-faced manservant who had shown Kara in, who had been standing perfectly still by the door in the interval.

"I believe he threw it in the Sea of Ghosts," said Jagon, bowing slightly.

Vile shrugged. "I'll get it back eventually." His smile spread wider. "Which brings me to why you're here. I have a proposition for you."

Kara's first reaction was hostility. She took a step back, her hand moving to her sword, but Vile spoke quickly.

"You'd like to be a better fighter, wouldn't you?" he said. Kara stopped, lowered her hand, and listened to his words. "I can give you that," Vile went on. "Power and skill, without all that pesky learning and training that takes _so long_. I can make you akin to a demigod."

Kara frowned again. A tempting bargain, to be sure. She'd always felt inadequate on the battlefield. She'd thought that she was at least somewhat skilled until that day by Lake Ilinalta when she'd challenged the Dragonborn. To see someone so masterful, so extraordinarily skilled, treating most combatants as a minor diversion, treating her as if she were a merely an inconvenience, had shattered her confidence. Since that day, she had wished to be a better fighter. More precisely, she had wished to be as good as the Dragonborn.

"What's in it for you?" asked Kara.

Vile waved a hand dismissively. "For one month of the year, you serve me," he said. "The rest of the year, do as you will. The tasks I ask of you shall be small, trivial, well within your capabilities. Even more so once you have your prodigious strength and speed."

Kara felt silent, and Vile took that as a sign he should keep talking. "You will not age," he said. "Diseases will pass you by. You will be stronger and faster than any mortal that walks Tamriel. Whatever armour you decide to wear will stop blows that would normally go right through. Whatever weapon you decide to wield will swing with nigh-unstoppable force, carving through enemies. You will be a legend."

Kara tried to think of an intelligent question, and failed. She couldn't see a downside. A tiny bit of dirty work for Vile for one month, then free to do as she wished for the rest of the year. A demigod, he'd said. Immortality. She wished Antario had been there, he would've been able to think of an intelligent question.

"Which month?" she asked, her mind scrambling for objections and finding none. This was everything she'd ever wanted, right in the palm of her hand.

"Morning Star," replied Vile, his smile widening. He knew he had her.

Morning Star was still six months away, reasoned Kara. Plenty of time to assess if there was a way out of the deal, some loophole to escape through, if she didn't end up liking her new power.

"I'll do it," she said.

"Excellent!" said Vile, extending his hand. They shook. Barbas looked at her with big eyes and went back to his snoozing.

Kara clenched and unclenched her fists, feeling some change come over her. Vile kept smiling at her.

"Would you like to give your power a test?" he asked. She nodded warily. "Go back outside," said Vile, "and eliminate my guests."

Kara turned, and Jagon the white-faced manservant held the door open for her. She drew her sword as she returned to the garden, and found its weight substantially decreased. Either Vile had played some trick on her sword or… she really was stronger.

The yellow demons in their fine clothes had fallen silent as she exited the glass building. All eyes were on her and her drawn sword. As one, the demons downed their drinks, cast aside their glasses, and came at Kara. She grinned and went to meet them.

Her sword carved the first one in half, sending black blood arcing through the air. She found she could wield her huge blade with one hand, leaving the other free to punch and grab. Slashing with the sword, she grasped one demon by its collar and slammed it into the ground, stomping on its head, causing it to burst like a grape. The pack around her was vanquished in seconds, and she ran to meet the next, realising that she could move faster than she had ever dreamed of. She leapt over the hedge dragon, landing in the midst of the oncoming demons, flaying wildly with her sword. She was soon covered in black blood. None of the demons even touched her.

The garden silent, Vile, Barbas and Jagon exited the glass building to survey her work. Vile's grin was the widest yet.

"Marvellous!" he said, throwing his arms wide. "You've done so well. See you next Morning Star!" The world shimmered, and she was thrown with great speed through the gate and into Helgen, slamming into the dirt, but rising without a scratch.

Dar'epha, Vash and Antario greeted her, their eyes widening at the sheer amount of black blood staining her armour and sword.

"What happened to you?" asked Dar'epha.

Kara clenched her hands tightly and sheathed her sword, turning away from her comrades. She realised then the curse; her prodigious strength would easily wreak havoc on her friends as well as enemies if she was not careful. "Nothing," she said, knowing her lie was poor. "Gondain not back?" She wondered how she'd fare against him now, and instantly knew it was a fight she could never allow herself to have.

Vash shook his head. "He is the last," the orc said. "Although there have been no daedra through the gate for a long while now."

"How long have I been gone?" asked Kara.

"Hours," replied Antario. "It is almost dawn."


	44. Know Your Enemy

Gondain crossed through the gate and saw exactly what he had expected. He stood at the base of a twisted tower with a monolithic grand hall. Behind him pulsed the gate he had stepped through. At the far end of the hall, a large spiral stair, wide enough for five men to walk abreast, extended up into the empty building. Gondain knew he stood in the Deadlands, the realm of Mehrunes Dagon, Lord of Destruction. The floor seemed to be made of hardened lava, blackened and bare. The walls and ceiling were twisted, sickening shades of brown and red, dotted with spikes and elaborate arches. The entire space seemed in serious disrepair.

From the spiral stair descended more lesser daedra, clearly aiming to get through the gate and resume the assault on Tamriel. More precisely, Gondain's friends. The dremora with their spiked armour, some carrying huge daedric blades, others preparing fireballs. Hordes of scamps, small brown creatures that moved fast and overwhelmed their foes with numbers. More of the flying bat-monsters, their talons ready to descend on the unwary. And Gondain saw bigger creatures, huge scaled reptilian beasts with crests of spikes and gnashing teeth.

He charged across the room towards them, disappointed that none of his comrades had come through after him. Or if they had, they had ended up in a different realm. On his own, he ran at the daedra, becoming aware very quickly that they were not interested in defeating him, only in getting past and through the gate. With that advantage, he was able to cut down many, his scimitar scything left and right in the mass of bodies at the base of the stairs, his foes crumbling to ash as he killed them. It wasn't long before he was drenched in blood and ash, slamming into enemies with all his might, seeking to stop as many as he could from getting past. He cursed himself for using his Voice so soon before jumping through the gate, it would not be useable again for some time.

But mighty as he was, the Dragonborn could not be everywhere at once. For every one he downed, two got passed him. He considered running after them, returning to Helgen and his friends, but knew he must go onwards, seeking a way to close the gate. There was a break, and the wave was done. Gondain breathed deeply, relishing the moment of silence. Then he ascended the spiral stairs.

He'd gone up the equivalent of a dozen flights when another wave descended. Gondain was able to take out more that time, using the width of the stairs to his advantage. His scimitar became stuck in the back of one of the scaled beasts, wrenched from his hand as it rolled down the stairs in its death throes, taking out many more on its way down. Gondain grinned bitterly and drew Chillrend, throwing himself back into the fray. The cold strikes of that blade were effective against the fiery beasts of the Deadlands, and Gondain felt himself making more progress than before. Less than half of the wave made it down and out through the gate.

Faced with the third wave, running up the stairs two at a time some twenty flights higher, Gondain felt the return of his Voice. He launched his Thu'um, unleashing the first Shout the Greybeards had taught him, Unrelenting Force. His enemies went flying off the stair, falling to their deaths in the great hall below. Many of the bats were dashed against the spikes that dotted the walls. He set upon the remainders with Chillrend, delivering quick, short strikes, expending no more energy than was necessary. Only a dribble of daedra made it to that gate that time.

Racing up the last flight, Gondain reached the top. He discovered that the top of the building was not a roof, but ground level; he had been fighting his way up a gigantic basement. He could see the red and orange sky, the black spires of rock shooting up from the lava, the islands in the bubbling molten sea. He approached Mehrunes Dagon.

The Lord of Destruction was red, bare-chested, and twice as large as any mortal man. Twisted horns escaped his brow, and all four of his arms were folded. With every exhalation, smoke drifted out of his mouth. His throne looked to have been carved out of the black hard lava that made up the only solid bits of landscape in sight.

"_You dare tread my halls after what you have done?_" asked Dagon. Even when his manner was not angry, his voice still emanated from every pore of the realm, causing Gondain to cringe as the all-consuming bellow reached his ears.

"Close the gate," demanded the Dragonborn, levelling his sword at the Prince. "Or I will bring your realm to its knees."

"_You do not have that power_," bellowed Dagon. "_You spurned my gifts, the gifts of all my kind. Be glad I got to you first and you are not losing your sanity in the depths of the Quagmire!_ _Here, you will face merely death._"

Gondain gestured to his bloodsoaked blade, to his stained and battered ebony armour. "I took out an army's worth of your sycophants on my way up here," he said. "What makes you think I can't take whatever you can throw at me?"

Dagon grinned, a hideous sight full of rotting pointed teeth. "_Face my champion_," he said.

From behind the throne emerged a huge Imperial, his muscles bulging under his scaled black armour, made of a material that Gondain could not determine the origins of. As Gondain watched, the Champion donned a full-faced helmet of the same dull black metal. His shield was the same as well, rounded with jagged sharp edges, his longsword viciously toothed.

Gondain recognised the shadow of a man within the Champion, but one long ago corrupted completely by offers of power and immortality. The Dragonborn sheathed Chillrend, and drew Dawnbreaker, knowing the blade, despite its daedric origins, would prove very effective against such a foe. Meridia cared not whether the undead her blade struck down were born of one of her fellow Princes.

The Champion advanced, overzealous, his blade coming down quickly. Gondain shrugged it off with Spellbreaker, delivering a return blow with Dawnbreaker that bounced of the Champion's shield, but set it to burning and bubbling. The Champion cried out and fumbled to unbuckle it. Gondain saw his moment and leaned in, hacking shortly at the Champion's side. The Champion dropped his shield before the bubbling reached his hand, but screamed as the same phenomenon started occurring where Gondain had struck his side.

Gondain grimaced under his ebony helmet and struck again, this time at the Champion's head. The Champion screamed again and went down. The Dragonborn's sword came down, severing the head. The Champion's body crumbled to ash.

Gondain looked up at Mehrunes Dagon, whose face was descending into anger.

"_It is time you returned those weapons_," said the Lord of Destruction. Both Spellbreaker and Dawnbreaker were wrenched from Gondain's hands. They floated towards Dagon, who spun them around loosely in the air. "_I shall return them to their owners, who you have spurned_." Gondain sighed. Mehrunes Dagon seemed to be a very one-note sort of demon.

Two gaps in the air opened up. A scaled reptilian hand emerged from one to retrieve Spellbreaker. Peryite, Gondain realised. A long time since he'd been on that hilltop inhaling fumes with Kesh the Khajiiti faithful. A pale feminine hand emerged from the other gap to grasp Dawnbreaker. Meridia, thought Gondain. Even longer since she'd hauled him into air at her shrine, since her voice had issued forth from the beacon he'd found in a cave. Both hands vanished, taking their items with them. Gondain was left with only his ebony armour and Chillrend.

"Is that the best you've got?" asked Gondain. "I beat your champion, now close the gate and send me back."

Dagon shook his head. "_You may defeat your enemies, but what about your friends?_" The black earth cracked and six figures issued forth, arranged in a loose circle around Gondain. The Dragonborn's heart sunk as he recognised what Dagon had done. The figures were his companions, armed and armoured as they had been in Helgen. But their eyes were wrong, pulsing with red and black twisting energies. The way they stood was forced, there was no naturalness to them. Dar'epha, Vash, Antario, Kara, Falin, and Kureeth all stared at him with no emotion, but it was not them.

"These are not my friends," growled Gondain, his anger rising to unforeseen heights.

"_No_," agreed Dagon. "_But it is amusing, isn't it?_"

Gondain nodded slowly, as if he was agreeing. In reality, he had already identified the best way to dispatch the twisted mirror images of his friends. Vash was the biggest threat, his magic could end the fight in an instant. So Gondain pivoted, moving before that instant could take place. He turned in place and hurled Chillrend at Vash, the glass blade embedding itself in the orc's chest. The mage crumpled to the ground, spurting blood.

As soon as the blade was out of his hand, Gondain had moved, charging at Falin. Getting hit with a paralysis spell like she was so fond of would have ended the fight for him. He was on her in a heartbeat, slamming his fist into her face, knocking her back and wrenching the Ysgramor's Shield from her arm. A copy of Ysgramor's Shield, he reminded himself.

With Falin scrambling on the ground, he slammed the edge of the shield into her throat. One mage left. He turned, bringing the shield up just in time to block a lightning bolt from Antario and an arrow from Dar'epha.

Kara was on him next. He remembered fighting her that last time, on the shore of Lake Ilinalta. He remembered her reckless approaches, her savage attacks. She'd improved, but not enough to be a threat to him. He turned aside her first strike with his shield, positioning himself so that Dar'epha and Antario could not get any more shots at him from their current position. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kureeth edging around to attack him from the side, dragonscale-clad fists raised.

On Kara's second strike, he pushed back with his shield, sweeping her feet out from under her at the same time. He pinned her wrist to the ground with a foot and stole her huge greatsword, dropping the shield. He left her where she was and swung the greatsword in a wide arc, impacting against Kureeth's raised fists, cracking the armour and sending him sprawling with the force of the blow.

Gondain turned back and buried the Kara's greatsword in her chest. She screamed, and died. Two lightning bolts came at him. One missed, but the other blasted on the torso of his ebony armour, staggering him. Several arrows bounced harmlessly of his armour. They may have had the appearance of his friends, but they clearly did not have the skill. Gondain retrieved Kara's sword from her body, knowing that if the fight had been against his real friends, he would have been dead already.

He hacked at Kureeth's face, the only open part of the Argonian's armour, before delivering the blade like a lance in his neck. The blood gurgled, but Kureeth did not make a sound, even in death. Gondain turned to see Dar'epha leaping through the air at him, her bow forgotten, two long daggers aimed at his throat and heart.

He swept the greatsword through the air, cutting deep into her side and disrupting her trajectory. She slammed into the ground and he buried the sword in her chest, as he had done with Kara. Only the demonic Antario remained, standing well out of sword-reach, his Akaviri sword in his right hand, spells launching from the other.

A fireball engulfed Gondain. He felt his armour become a veritable furnace, felt the impossible heat wash over him, and ignored it. He ran towards Antario, weaponless. A series of bolts fizzled on his armour, not even slowing him down. Antario attempted to bring his sword to bear, but Gondain grabbed his wrist, crushing the Altmer's wrist with his gauntleted fist. He caught the sword as his foe dropped it, and swept it across, severing Antario's head.

The Dragonborn stood, breathing heavily, still holding the Akaviri sword. He levelled it at Mehrunes Dagon, still sitting on his throne, looking significantly less sure of himself than he had the first time Gondain had performed the action.

"You could replicate their bodies," spat Gondain through clenched teeth, his rage boiling furiously within. "But you could not replicate their souls, what makes them unique." Silence reigned over the Deadlands, neither the Dragonborn nor the Lord of Destruction speaking.

"Close the gate," demanded Gondain. "Cease this invasion. Send me back."

"_Your reckoning will come, Dragonborn_," spoke Dagon. "_And I will be there to claim your soul_."

"Good luck with that," retorted Gondain, turning to leave. The world shifted with a huge crack, and instead of the spiral stair, the gate stood before him, still pulsing with daedric energies.

"_This is not over!_" bellowed Mehrunes Dagon. "_Tamriel will fall to me one way or another!_"

"Maybe another way," conceded Gondain. "Maybe when my bones lie rotting and my soul is damned. But not this way. Not while I still draw breath."

He turned back and hurled the Akaviri sword at Dagon, the blade lodging in his chest. The Prince paid it no mind, still bellowing vows of destruction. Gondain ignored him, and seeing the gate start to flicker, leapt through.

* * *

There was a ragged cheer when he landed in the dirt of Helgen. He rose, surveying the defenders. Significantly less than when he had left. All of his original companions were there though, in various states of weariness.

He turned back towards the gate, saw it flicker again, shrink, its energies moving slower and slower. Finally, it winked out. Another, louder cheer went up. Gondain saw his friends smiling at him, but he could not muster one in return.

In the east, the first bits of light edged warily over the horizon, cautious, as if unsure of whether it was time for them to appear. Gaining confidence, they cast their brilliant rays into the cold sky. A new day began to dawn.


	45. Epilogue: Loose Ends

_~A/N: That's it, this story is over. It's been great fun to write, as well as a learning experience. And finished in less than a year! Most of these characters will return, of course, in other stories. My future plans are on my profile and my tumblr. Thanks to everyone who's read this story and everyone who's reviewed, you're the best. Enjoy.~_

* * *

The Thalmor and Dagon's daedra had taken a heavy toll on those who had gathered to fight for the Dragonborn. Before Gondain had leapt through the gate, only Maul the Guild enforcer, Ria the Companion, and Raddin the Legionnaire had perished. Upon his return, he found many more had met their deaths in Helgen. Brynjolf and Rikke, who'd taken joint command after the Dragonborn and his companions had left, explained to him what had happened.

The waves that Gondain had been unable to stop in the Deadlands had indeed surfaced on the other side of the gate, just as he'd feared. Under Kara's instructions, they'd scoured the ruins of Helgen, making sure there hadn't been any last dregs of Thalmor hiding in dark corners. As it turned out, there had been.

Uthgerd the Unbroken had been blown across a room while searching, having stumbled across a lightning rune set by the Thalmor. Her neck had snapped on impact. After that, they'd gone more cautiously, using the mages to detect life forces in the ruins. Even that hadn't been perfectly successful. A Thalmor mage's fireballs had broken through Brelyna Maryon's wards, already weakened from earlier fights. She'd been consumed by the fire, dying screaming.

A lone Thalmor spellsword had burst from the old tavern and taken out Thrynn the Guild hardman and Vodus the Legionnaire before being run through by Mjoll's sword.

Then the daedra had resumed spewing forth from the gate. The first wave he'd fought at the base of the stairs, Gondain realised. The first, and the largest. They'd lost Etienne Rarnis, Cynric Endell, and Miles in the first, Faralda and Casscia in the second. By the third and final wave, also the smallest, they were coping better. Then, the waves had stopped altogether. They'd kept up the defensive perimeter, double- and triple-checked the ruins for more Thalmor, organised rotas so some could catch snatches of sleep.

Thirty-five had left the Sleeping Giant inn for the battle at Helgen. Twenty-three would leave.

Gondain cursed violently on being told the numbers, tearing his helmet off and throwing it across the town. He vanished after it, reappearing with it back on, rooting around in the ruins for a shovel. Silently, Rikke joined him, followed by Kureeth, who hadn't said a word since returning through the gate. Although that wasn't unusual in itself. Together, the trio dug the twelve graves required under the shadow of a broken tower, on the very ground where Gondain's almost-execution had taken place in his first visit to Helgen. The others chipped in to ferry their bodies, gathering round as the last, Uthgerd, was interred, stones salvaged from the walls of the town inscribed with the names and deeds of the fallen.

With everyone assembled, battered, bloody, and weary, the Dragonborn seemed to be on the verge of saying something, a few words for the deceased. Under his helmet, his face hidden from the others, he even opened his mouth. But he could not form the words. He pushed through the motley group and exited the town through the small west doorway, the same way he'd entered during the assault.

Dar'epha threw a look at Vash, and they both hurried after him, catching up halfway down the hill.

"It's not your fault," said the orc, causing Gondain to stop and half turn, his feet uneven on the steep path.

"Maybe not," said Gondain, "but I'm going to blame myself anyway." He turned and looked down the hill. "Thank the others for me," he said, starting to move off again. "I'll come see you all in a while. Feel free to use Breezehome if you need it."

* * *

The Dragonborn fell off the map for a week. A swordless warrior in ebony wandering the wilds. When he did resurface, it was in the last place anyone who knew him would have expected him to go: Markarth.

Dressed in simple fur and leather, still with no weapon, his head bare, he announced himself at the gates and demanded entrance to the city. He had a private audience with Jarl Igmund, calmly explaining the much-misunderstood circumstances that had led to Gondain escaping Cidhna Mine with Madanach and the Forsworn. Igmund was eventually convinced, offering to wipe Gondain's crimes clean and re-instate him as Thane.

Gondain declined, vowing never to set foot in the city again, asking merely to be allowed to remove his possessions from his Markarth house before returning it to the Jarl's ownership. The Jarl agreed, knowing with the mood in the city still so against the Dragonborn, it was for the best.

Gondain ascended the steps to Vlindrel Hall, having harangued several guards into helping him out with what he had planned. There was only one thing of worth in the Hall: his bookcase. Even with the guards, it took three trips to bring the vast collection down from the Hall and load them in a wagon outside the city.

At the reins was an old friend: Argis the Bulwark. One-time housecarl to Gondain, he'd been more than happy to do one final favour for his old Lord. The cargo secured, the two warriors clasped wrists, and Argis flicked the reins, carrying the small library to Winterhold's Arcanaeum. Gondain knew Vash would be pleased with the collection; he'd kept every unique tome he'd encountered, early on in his adventures.

* * *

Gondain turned towards Solitude, taking his time on the way. He stopped at Karthwasten and had a drink with Ainethach, whose mine he'd been responsible for returning ownership to. He took a detour down to Rorikstead and had a drink with Rorik and Mralki at the Frostfruit Inn. He told none of the people he spoke to that he was leaving, but most of them could tell somehow, that they would not speak with again for a long while, if ever.

When Gondain reached Solitude, he was surprised to find Antario inside Castle Dour, speaking to General Tullius and Legate Rikke. Gondain officially resigned his commission with the Imperial Legion, doing a small tour of the city to farewell others he'd befriended during his time there. Jarl Elisif and Falk Firebeard, Jordis and Beirand, everyone at the Bards College, all the Guild members who were in the revamped Proudspire Manor. Dar'epha was not one of them; back at Riften, they said.

Antario caught up with him as he was leaving, almost out the gate. The Altmer's robes were once again resplendent, a deep red and black pattern with silver trim. The golden sword he'd brought out of Oblivion still hung from his belt.

"You are leaving then?" asked Antario.

"Yeah," replied Gondain, realising he at least owed his friends the respect of a proper goodbye. "Don't know where, though. I'll think of something."

"I am sure that you will," nodded Antario. "I, too, am leaving. Unrest is brewing over in Summerset, the General wishes me to act as his, um, agent."

"You mean a spy?" asked Gondain.

A rare grin split Antario's face. "Indeed," he agreed. "Skyrim appears to have changed me somewhat."

"Speaking of which," said Gondain, "is Kara going with you?"

"She would rather stand out in Alinor, I think," replied Antario, his facing growing downcast. "But I have not seen her. She vanished soon after Helgen. Nobody has seen her since."

"I'll ask around," said Gondain. "Good luck to you, Antario." They shook hands warmly.

"And to you, Dragonborn," replied his friend.

* * *

Gondain headed south, taking a wide circle across Whiterun's plains to avoid going to Rorikstead again. He rejoined the path and made his way to Falkreath. In the eighteen months he'd lived in the hut with his wife Angi above the town, he'd made some good friends there. Runil the priest, Solaf in Grey Pine Goods, Valdr and Valga in Dead Man's Drink, he shared time with them all. Gondain gritted his teeth and prepared to speak with Jarl Siddgeir, whose manner had always put him on the verge of a furious rage, intending to inform him of what had transpired at Helgen. But the guard at the door informed him that the Arch-Mage had already done so. Breathing a sigh of relief and remembering to thank Vash when he saw him, Gondain borrowed a packhorse from Solaf and departed Falkreath.

He climbed the steep path to the hut where he and his wife had lived during his seemingly so brief retirement. The snows fell harder the higher he ascended, the horse having a hard time of it, but not complaining. The hut was still deserted, scorchmarks from the attack by the Dark Brotherhood assassin still visible. It would have taken a lot of work to make it liveable again.

Gondain found his wife's grave, half-covered by the snows. He cleared the snow away with his hands and sat in the cold beside her last resting-place. In a low voice, he explained to her, to the biting winds, what had happened and what he was going to do. He felt that she would have understood. He hoped she would have.

Inside the hut, he tore up the floorboards, hauling out a large chest. Opening it revealed it to be filled to the brim with gold and jewels. Not even a fraction of his wealth, Gondain ruminated. And how much was it really worth? He moved the load into sacks, some of which he slung over the packhorse's back, some of which he slung over his own shoulders. He led the laden packhorse down the hill again through deepening snows.

On the outskirts of Falkreath, he transferred the load to a rented carriage, returned the packhorse to Solaf, and set out for Whiterun.

* * *

Breezehome was empty, but Gondain could tell that someone had been there recently. From a drawer he removed a much-used map of Skyrim. Not something he'd needed in a long time. He marked several locations on it, flipping the parchment over the make some notes on the back. Then he called the guards in.

In addition to the chest-load from Falkreath, there were ten chest-loads secured within Breezehome. With the guards' help, Gondain carried them up to Dragonsreach, into the hall of Jarl Balgruuf. The guards of Whiterun were the best in Skyrim, Gondain had often thought, and he felt that they could make far more use of what he had than he could.

Balgruuf soon appeared, along with Proventus and Irileth.

"What are you doing, Dragonborn?" asked Balgruuf. "What is in these chests?"

"How much would it take to revamp the guards and defences here?" asked Gondain. "A full upgrade, better weapons, better armour, the whole deal."

Balgruuf frowned, unsure, looking to Proventus for assistance.

"Impossible with the treasury the way it is," said Proventus. "It would take tens, most likely, hundreds of thousands of coins to achieve such a thing."

Gondain signalled to the guards, still panting from their trek up the stairs with their heavy loads. They opened the chests in unison, revealing the glittering of gold and gems, in uncountable numbers, of uncountable value.

"Think that could put a dent in it?" asked Gondain. Everyone else in the hall was speechless. "There's more," Gondain went on. "I'll have it sent up. Divide it up, send some to other Jarls, on the condition they use it for the same things: better guards, better town defences. See if you can't get some walls up around the smaller towns. But keep the big share for here."

"Why?" breathed Balgruuf, recovering the power of speech.

Gondain shrugged. "I like this town best," he said. "And Skyrim could use some better guards. No offence," he added, looking at the many guards who'd helped him out.

"None taken," they mumbled, already trying to calculate what sort of gear they could get, how they could upgrade the barracks.

"It's been an honour, Jarl Balgruuf," said Gondain, striding forward to shake the Jarl's hand. He did the same with Irileth, most of the guards, and even Proventus.

"Are you coming back?" asked Balgruuf, catching on to what was happening.

"I don't know," replied Gondain, and he didn't.

* * *

Under the Gildergreen, Gondain ran into Vash. The two sat on a bench under the grand tree, the light flickering across their faces. Vash explained that he'd been in Whiterun almost since Helgen, staying in Breezehome, talking to Farengar and the Jarl, building connections with the College.

"So you haven't seen my delivery then?" asked Gondain. Vash's expression was confused. "I sent you all of my books from my library in Markath. Thought some of them might be worth an addition to the Arcanaeum."

Vash's grin had never been wider. He began planning his trip back to Winterhold right then, unable to wait any longer to check out the new haul. Then the cogs began to turn in his mind.

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"I don't know," replied Gondain. "Away from Skyrim, that's for sure." He stood up, stretching. "I have some business in Riften. I'll come see you at the College before I go. Any idea where Kureeth and Falin are?"

Vash nodded, standing too. "They're in Winterhold," he said. "Wanted to start building a house as soon as they could. Falin's enrolled in the College."

"Give me about a week," the Dragonborn said. "I'll come see you all around then." He handed over the rolled-up parchment he'd been carrying, the map with its marks and its notes. "I've marked some ruins you might be interested in," he said.

"Dwemer?" asked Vash eagerly.

"Some," replied Gondain. "Be careful."

"Please," said Vash. "I'm always careful."

* * *

Before leaving Whiterun, Gondain stopped by Jorrvaskr, officially turning over the leadership of the Companions to Aela. It came as no great surprise to anyone in the old mead hall. He had not done any actual leading of the group in a long time.

It took several days for Gondain to reach Riften. He'd remembered something at the last minute, and had taken a detour through Ivarstead and up to High Hrothgar. He'd spoken with the Greybeards about his intentions, along with taking a further trip to the peak of the Throat of the World, talking with Paarthurnax and Odahviing. They were all sad to see him go, but agreed that there while there was always more they could teach him, he had been an admirable student.

When he did reach Riften, it was late. Night had fallen over the wooden bridges and narrow alleys. It didn't matter, the people he wanted to talk to kept odd hours anyway. Pressing the appropriate button, he descended into the cistern of the Thieves Guild. Warm smiles and claps on the back greeted him from fellow members. He made his way, slowed down by small talk, to the Ragged Flagon, finding the usual crowd spread out, telling tall tales.

Delvin, Vex, Brynjolf, Karliah, Vekel, Tonilia, Sapphire, and Dar'epha. He explained to them all what he was doing. They understood that he couldn't live the life he'd lived forever. Delvin convinced him to not cut all ties with the Guild, as they had members and contacts all over.

"You'll never know when you'll need a friendly face," Delvin put it. They stayed up for hours, drinking and telling stories. Dawn not far away, Gondain made his excuses and moved out. Dar'epha caught up to him in the tunnel through to the cistern. Wordlessly, she pulled him into a hug.

"Look after yourself," she told him, her scars bright in the lantern-light.

"I thought you'd want to come with me," replied Gondain, unsure whether he would have wanted that or not.

Dar'epha looked back towards the Flagon. Gondain understood. She'd found a family, and a home.

"Try not to get caught," he said, moving away.

"I never do," she replied.

* * *

Arranging for the delivery to Whiterun of what valuables remained in Honeyside, Gondain headed north, stopping off for a drink at Shor's Stone, bypassing Windhelm completely, and heading for Winterhold. It was night again as he entered the town, but there was light in the ruins of the house closest to the path up to the College. Several braziers burned, standing out in the snow, casting wide glows over Kureeth, engaged in demolition work, pulling down rotted walls and beams.

Silently, Gondain joined him, the two working together to tear down what remained of the house. It didn't take the pair very long.

"Should be a nice place," said Gondain, when they had finished and were surveying their work. "You building it on your own?"

Kureeth nodded. "Take a week or two for the first floor," he said. "Less for the second." They stood in silence again, both envisioning how the finished home would look.

"Where's Falin?" asked Gondain eventually.

Kureeth pointed towards the College. "I'll come with you," the huge Argonian said. It was the longest conversation the two had ever had. They climbed the icy bridge to the College together, the gate sliding open silently for them. Gondain knew just where to find Vash and Falin. Entering through the main door, they took the stairs on the right, winding up to the Arcanaeum.

Poring over a pile of stacked books were Vash, Arch-Mage; Falin, newest student; Tolfdir, Master Wizard; and Onmund, librarian. All greeted the newcomers warmly, Tolfdir and Onmund fading further back into the library to give the friends some space.

"This collection is amazing, Gondain!" said Vash. "The field journal of Sinderion the alchemist, three of the _Sixteen Accords of Madness_, none of which I've come across before!"

"Tell him what you're writing," grinned Falin.

"Oh, it's nothing," said Vash, becoming contrite. "You wouldn't be interested in contributing."

Gondain raised an eyebrow. "Contributing to what?"

"I'm putting together a book about our experiences in Oblivion," Vash explained. "It seems we all ended up in different realms. Antario wrote his own section before he left. Dar'epha and Kureeth have provided me with parts, although they say there are things they can't talk about. Falin here provided me with a very detailed account of Meridia's Coloured Rooms, along with some most ominous portents I wish to discuss with you."

Gondain shook his head. "You're on your own with that," he said.

"The book or the portents?" asked Falin.

"Either. Both," replied Gondain. "I'd rather not talk about what happened in Oblivion." Vash nodded his understanding. "As for the portents," Gondain went on, "Skyrim's going to have to deal with its own problems for a while. I can't fix everything for them."

The others understood. Vash too had become weary of his responsibilities as Arch-Mage. He enjoyed the College, the sanctuary it provided, the bastion of learning that it was, but he did not want to spend all his life inside its walls.

"Will we see you again?" asked Vash.

"Probably," said Gondain. "I doubt I'll be able to stay away forever. Skyrim is my home, after all."

Hands were shook and farewells were made. Leaving his friends behind in the library to sort out their books and their lives, Gondain left the College, taking his time on the bridge, staring out over the Sea of Ghosts. It was a long way down.

He pulled his furs tighter around himself and continued on.

* * *

Two days later found the Dragonborn at Windhelm's docks, wandering aimlessly after speaking to Jarl Brunwulf. He'd been unable to find a trace of Kara, even in her old home city. She seemed to have vanished completely. He put it out of his mind. If she wanted to disappear, that was her business.

Gondain knew he had to get out of Skyrim, but where? He'd seen Hammerfell, Cyrodiil, Elsweyr, Black Marsh and Morrowind on his trip with Dar'epha. He was in no rush to return to any of those locations, especially Black Marsh. Elsweyr, Valenwood and the Summerset Isles were unsafe due to the Dominion. That left, what, High Rock? Orsinium? He doubted he would be welcome in the kingdom of the Orcs. And High Rock was far too steeped in politics for his liking. Where then?

As he strode along the docks, Gondain saw a vessel he wasn't familiar with, its crew outfitting it for departure. Gondain strode alongside the ship and hailed the captain.

"Where are you headed?" he asked. The captain didn't recognise him, which was a nice feeling.

"To Solstheim!" answered the captain. "If you're looking for passage, you won't find a finer vessel than my _Northern Maiden_."

The island of Solstheim. Gondain knew next to nothing about it. Formerly an Imperial province, it had been gifted to Morrowind after Red Mountain erupted, Dunmer refugees flowing in, fleeing from the destruction and the Argonian invasion. Solstheim. It seemed a good a place as any.

"How much for passage?" asked Gondain.

"Two-hundred and fifty gold," said the captain. A bit steep, thought Gondain, but he counted it out anyway, realising that the price of passage would take half of the gold he had on him. He shrugged it off. He could survive on less than nothing. He handed the money over.

"Are you sure?" asked the captain. "It can be a rough sort of place."

"I've seen a few rough places," replied Gondain. "I'm sure I can handle it."

"You look like you can, at that," replied the captain. "Alright, you've got yourself a ship. We'll cast off immediately." He set to loading the last few boxes onto the ship. Gondain lent him a hand, suddenly eager to be off.

"What's your name?" asked Gondain.

"Gjalund," replied the captain. He pointed at the two other members of the crew. "Those are Lygrleid and Sogrlaf. And you? You look like a Breton, if you don't mind me sayin' so."

"I was born there," replied Gondain. "My name is Gondain. I guess I call Skyrim my home now."

The boxes loaded, Gjalund met his eyes. "Aye, it has a way of growin' on you, doesn't it?"

Gondain chuckled, for the first time in weeks. He looked up at the dark stones of Windhelm, the Argonian dock workers going about their tasks, turning to view the snowy peaks of the Veloth Mountains and the gently lapping White River. "Yeah," he agreed. "That it does."


End file.
